


Beautiful Music

by gisho



Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Original Works
Genre: gratuitious bagpipes, small-town neighborly drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:06:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6423331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gisho/pseuds/gisho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The villiage of Llangarreg is peaceful ... except for the outbreaks of bagpipe music. But when the town's avid amatuer piper gets a new neighbor, a French writer with a taste for the finer things, the long-simmering argument erupts into outright battle. Will the accordion triumph? Will the local hedgewitch have to get involved? Will their neighbors get any bloody sleep this year? </p><p>(Begun in response to a kinkmeme prompt, but can be read as original work with no background knowledge of Hetalia.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. March

**Author's Note:**

> Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/20026.html?view=73748538#t73748538 - Human AU. Scotland and France are neighbours. The thing is - Scotland has this really annoying habit of practicing on his bagpipes all day long. France begins to return the favour by picking up the accordion. This soon becomes a musically fought battle that annoys the hell out of everyone else in the neighbourhood. So their other neighbours team up and lock them into a sound-proof basement/garage to battle it out for themselves...
> 
> The village of Llangarreg is entirely made up. There is a Llangurig, but I would just as soon not inflict the accordion or bagpipes on its innocent inhabitants. For the record.

\--

**March**

The village of Llangarreg was a peaceful enough place, usually. It had more than its share of eccentrics, a steady trickle of tourists coming by to look at the (not particularly interesting) medieval church, and two pubs. There were farms in the surrounding hills, a mine that had run out of ore and been abandoned, and a set of interesting local legends, only some of them made up on the spot to entertain visitors. A peaceful place.

Usually.

Unless Murray was feeling musical.

\--

Just about everyone in the vicinity knew to run for cover by now. It wasn't that Murray was unmusical in normal circumstanches. He sung in the choir and could carry a tune. It was the places he carried it to that bothered his neighbours. Did it have to be bagpipes? He could have taken up the harp, like that nice sister of his. Or the electric guitar, like that slightly less nice brother. But no; he'd been inspired by the grand musical traditions of the Highlands that his family actually had no connection whatsoever to, and once a week or so, the streets of Llangarreg rung out with the hideous wailing.

The street, at least. He lived in the block of crumbling brick terraced houses that stood alone at one end of town, and so the worst effects were limited to those people who, for purposes of sound-transmittal, lived in the same building. One more argument in favor of tearing the thing down and putting in bungalows, at least in the eyes of those who could afford more congenial housing arrangements. 

There had been polite requests, but Murray had politely informed everyone that he was entitled to his little hobbies. So the near neighbours bought earplugs, and when nice Mrs. Price from next door decided she was getting too old to be on her own and went to stay with her son down in Swansea, there was a general agreement that the house should be sold to someone who richly deserved it.

\--

_Foreigners_ , the estate agent had been gently urged. _Some English fellow looking for a holiday home_. Murray knew none of it, of course. So when he stuck his hand out over the fence and asked, "Where're you from, then?" he was slightly more astonished than the party hiding behind the hedge to hear, "Paris."

The accent bore the fellow out. He was handsome in a rakish way, wore a shirt entirely too nice to be moving house in, and grinned entirely too wide. Murray matched the grin. "Well, Francis from Paris. Good to have you here, it is."

"I hope that my stay will be pleasant," Francis answered. He spoke English like he was picking it up with sugar tongs, each word dropped neatly into place. "The inhabitants seem most friendly."

Murray nodded, and scratched at the side of his beard. "True enough. Never had a Frenchman living here before, I don't think. They'll all want to hear your life story."

"Ah, yes. This is one of those friendly little villages, is it not? I was assured as much. They told me, it may not look like much, but you will have a good time in Llangerreg." He mangled the pronunciation - didn't get the _ll_ anywhere close, although you could hardly expect a foreigner to, and he dropped the last _g_ completely.

Behind the hedge Murray's brother Arthur stuffed his knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing, as the unintentional pun slowly worked through Murray's mind and the deep blush spread across his face. Or perhaps it had been intentional, from the traces of smirk in Francis's smile.

\--

The first time, Francis laughed it off and went back inside to keep writing.

\--

"Really? No one told you?" Arthur declared the second time, in badly feigned surprise.

"No one." Francis winced, and pressed a hand to his ear, as if it would help. "Does he perhaps do this on a schedule? Could one arrange to be elsewhere whenever the bagpipe practice occurs?"

"It's quite unpredictable," Arthur answered, and leaned down to examine the flowerbed. Mrs. Price had been quite proud of her flowerbeds; they were beginning to show weeds. Pity, really. "I would scarcely have felt it required to move to the other end of town if it were possible to escape him while remaining in the same block." He waved at the row of terraced houses, all currently vibrating gently as the bagpipe noises :emanating from Murray's spare room were transmitted down the brick. He carefully did not smirk.

\--

The third time, Francis fished in his pockets and produced a pair of bright blue foam earplugs. He pushed them in with a faintly smug look.

Five minutes later he ripped them out again, glared as if they had done him personal injury, and dropped them on the pavement. Then he stomped back inside, and a moment later the noise of something heavy being thrown against the wall could be heard even over the ethereal wails of Danny Boy.

\--

It was a lovely spring day, the daffodils were in bloom, and Francis was sitting in the Angel Inn nursing a glass of house red wine. He had taken three sips in total, and winced after each one.

"We've got whisky if you'd rather," the bartender, Mari, helpfully informed him. When he did not reply, she added, "Or ale, or lager, or cider, or, well, anything really. As long as it doesn't need fruit on a stick."

"That will not be necessary," Francis said to his undrunk wine. It really deserved no name beyond wine, and possibly not even that. It must have come off a tank-car somewhere, and retained certain elements of the metallic taste.

"Look," Mari said, and then apparently gave it up as a bad job, sighed, and went back to polishing glasses.

The wine failed to gleam. The bar door sat firmly shut. Overhead a light flickered in the way lights do when they're contemplating quitting.

Francis tipped back the wine and gulped half of it, eyes closed. When he set it down again there was a mad gleam in his eyes. "I have a cunning plan," he announced to Mari and the flickering lights.

\--

The truth was that, apart from the bagpipes, Francis and Murray got on eerily well. They had spent several evenings in their respective back gardens, trading jibes about football - their mutual contempt for the England national team was good for more than an hour of collaboration on potential improvements - and Young People These Days. Arthur, quietly weeding the vegetable beds for old deaf Mr. Roberts on the other side of Murray's house, wondered how a twenty-nine-year-old could discuss Young People with a straight face. But then, his brother was one of those people who seemed to have achieved middle age somewhere in primary school. Certainly he had behaved no more youthfully for as long as Arthur's memory lasted.

They showed up together at the Angel Inn the next evening, and Murray attempted to introduce Francis to the wonders of stout. Arthur found this out from Mari later; he preferred to reender himself insensible at the Green Man. A place of myriad virtues. For example, it gave credit.

The date at the Angel became a regular occurance; Francis was welcomed easily into Murray's circle of friends. He acquitted himself well in the tricky rituals of getting his round in.

"You've been reading up on pub ettiquete, have you?" Murray asked, amused.

"Well, yes. It seemed such an important aspect of British culture." Francis waved the Bloody Mary that Mari at the bar had, by some miracle, procured for him, and smiled his charming smile. He quite loked the Angel, which was bright and well-kept, and featured a bartender who seemed to mean it when she smiled. "I thought it was important to follow native customs."

"The way you say that, it makes us sound like aboriginies." The words had no rancour.

Francis laughed. "No, no, I only meant that I mean to be here for some time. I have been told that Llangareg - " he still mispronouced it, silent final G - "was peaceful, and so it has proven to be, on the whole. I enjoy the landscape, and the isolation, and the company. I might even stay once my book is finished."

Murray nodded sagely, and lifted his pint of stout.

\--


	2. April

**April**

The piercing note of the accordion at first attracted only a few amused glances to the house. An accordion had no drone.

After an hour or so of irregular scales, Mari abandoned her sixth attempt at Ulysses in favor of knocking on Anthony and Ercwlff's door. When they proved absent or asleep, although how anyone could sleep through the noise she couldn't imagine, she moved on to Cadoc's. In his spotless kitchen, sipping the tea hospitality compelled him to offer to visitors invited or otherwise, she asked if this had happened before when she wasn't home.

"Not that I've noticed," he admitted. "Of course, if he began while I was working, or while Murray was practicing bagpipes - "

"You wouldn't have noticed." Cadoc had long since purchased ear protectors; he seemed to find them sufficient. Of course, Cadoc couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, poor man.

He adjusted his tie. Even on Saturday he wore a tie. "I expect he will tire of it soon enough. Accordions are - " He paused, as a particularly improbable noise reverberated through the wall.

Mari sweetly suggested, "Insufferable?"

He looked embarassed, but nodded.

"Come down to the Angel with me. I doubt anyone will care if I open early. And if bagpipe noises don't reach that far, accordion shouldn't, I don't think."

"It's only a quarter-mile," Cadoc pointed out, but wwhen they got there only a faint, distant whine was audible, and nothing at all inside with the door closed, windows shut, and sitting at the furthest end of the bar. Mari poured Cadoc a lager, and one for herself unprompted.

\--

On Tuesday afternoon, Cadoc remembered he had left a stack of essays that needed marking at the school, and Mari remembered she had to go into town and get a new raincoat, and Anthony and Ercwlff made no excuse, but vanished in a cloud of exhaust fumes in Anthony's elderly Renault Clio. His ongoing fued with Murray had left it a bucket of rust; why he didn't just take it to some other town for service was a topic of frequent speculation amoung his neighbors.

Murray, of course, was down at the garage and missed the accordion recital entirely.

\--

A week later, Francis had taken to playing scales. Endless, repetitive scales. He paused on occasion to repeat a note a few dozen times.

Cadoc began sweeping the pavement in front of his house (and everyone else's, since he was the only one on the street who regarded swept pavements as a sign of civic order rather than obsessive-complusive disorder) with industrial ear protectors on. His garden remained impeccable, of course, but no longer could he be seen there in the evenings. Instead he sat in the Angel, sipping lager. Mari gave him knowing smiles; he did his best to look bland and neutral, and succeeded only in looking like he has a migrane. "A bit much, isn't it?" she finally sid.

"Well. Perhaps." He looked to where Anthony was merrily downing something with an umbrella in it. "Of course I support Francis's desire for a hobby - "

" - you'd just rather he had become a mime?"

His blandness collapsed into a look of pathetic misery. "At least Murray plays tunes. I don't know how Francis can listen to himself."

"You could move across town," she offered. "Like Arthur did."

"He's not across town, he's out of town, properly speaking. And I had been given to understand Murray kicked him out." It wasn't quite a question, more a gentle suggestion to the universe.

"He didn't protest very hard, you understand."

"Ah," Cadoc declared, and applied himself with gusto to his pint.

\--

On the other end of town - or properly speaking, out of town altogether - Arthur was indulging in his usual evening pastime when he felt himself to have stretched his credit at the Green Man to its practical limit: knitting.

He had meant to make socks for himself, but the comfortable rhythm had hypnotized him into finishing almost a foot of one before remembering to turn the heel, and there was really nothing for it but to give them to his sister. A little disgruntled with this conclusion, he set the socks aside and got up to make tea. He had gotten as far as lighting the hob when Murray pounded on the door.

"Oh, good, you've got the kettle on," he opened, ignoring Arthur's glare. "You still out of Anzac buscuits?"

"Astoundingly enough, I havn't managed the twelve-mile walk to the nearest store that stocks biscuits you like but I can't stand, in the two days since you last invited yourself to tea."

"You know, if you got a car I'd change your oii for half price. Family discount."

Arthur eyed Murray dubiously. A car would strain his finances to breaking; Murray would not have made an offer that involved giving up money if it had a whelk's chance in a supernova of being taken up. "What are you trying to finagle me out of this time, Murray?"

"It's about Francis," Murray said. At least he didn't deny it. "Let me in."

The problem, it appeared, was that Francis had taken to playing the accordion in the evenings. While Murray was home. Murray was getting sick of the endless scales. Privately Arthur wondered how his brother felt he had any moral high ground, but at least he restricted his practice to weekend. He made sympathetic noises while his brother paced and ranted, all the while doing his grocery list in his head. Sugar. Tomato soup. Chicken noodle soup. Cabbage.

"And then it was Frere Jacques. And again. Over and over. He played it seventy times! I counted!"

"Crisps," Arthur offered, trying to sound sympathetic. He caught his mistake at once, from Murray's expression, and hastily went on: "Have a seat, you're making me tired, pacing like that."

Murray plopped heavily into the armchair. Then he sprung upright again, with an incoherent roar. Arthur watched with some alarm s Murray fished about in the chair and produced the half-finished sock. "Are you trying to stab me in the arse?"

"No, I'm trying to solve your interpersonal problems from sheer fraternal goodwill! Sit on the bed if you're worried," Arthur offered, with a brief desperate hope he had left nothing tucked beneath his pillow. He couldn't quite recall; he had made his bed in the dark that morning. "What do you want from me, anyway?"

Thanfully the kettle started to whistle before Murray was forced to say he had only wanted a sympathetic ear. That would have been hard to say, almost as hard as the truth.

\--

 

Two weeks, and Francis had progressed to simple tunes - Frere Jacques most often, interspersed with snatches of what would have been much more recognizable as Ode To Joy had it been played on some instrument other than the accordion.

Cadoc had decided to be subtle. He acquired, on an impromptu trip into town, a book of Elementary Songs Suitable For The Learner, which the shop clerk had assured him were playable on accordion. He knocked on Francis's door with some wariness, but Francis welcomed him with a fliratious grim, and offered coffee as though it were a secret sybaritic pleasure men were not meant to know of.

In a month he had already repainted the kitchen pale almond, replaced old Mrs. Price's antique refrigerator, and installed a massive stand mixer where the pot of petunias had stood. "I might have to redo the cabinets," he confided.

Cadoc nodded sagely, wondering if Francis had put anything in the coffee. When he left, book duly delivered and exclaimed delightedly over, Francis kissed him on both cheeks, perfectly Continental.

\--

Anthony fished through his record collection, finally selecting an album of Cheerful Christmas Carols for Children that was usually reserved for tormenting revelers in the darkest months of the year. He moved the speakers of his stero system to point directly at the wall his house shared with Francis's, and waited. When the afternoon recital began he turned the record on, loud, and went to start dinner with a smile on his face.

When Ercwlff returned with groceries, he vanished upstairs, dumping the bags on the kitchen table; a catfood tin fell out and skittered behind the bin. Ercwlff was an exceptionally calm and patient man. He waited until Anthony had flipped Cheerful Christmas Carols over three times before descending, impassive expression firmly in place. He beckoned Anthony to the parlour, lifted the needle carefully from the record, lifted the record from the turntable, and calmly broke the record over Anthony's head.

That was the end of that plan.

\--

Mr. Roberts left Arthur a note, in his too-bold scrawl of incongruously purple ink, wondering if something was going on with the electric service, from the hum he kept hearing. Arthur wrote back that it was just something the new neighbor was up to, and out of respect for Mr. Robert's age, refrained from suggesting he be glad for his hearing loss.

\--

"And this," Murray declared with an expansive gesture, "is The Rock."

Mari hid a smile in her scarf. Had Francis been female, she would have suspected Murray of flirting, so eager was he to show off the town.

Francis regarded it for a while, tilting his head back aand forth. "Why the definite article?"

"Well, there's only the one, really. That's this big." Or that stood upright in the open for no apparent reason, but that was perhaps too obvious for Murray to mention even in his fluster. "And it's next to the church, and all, 'swhy this place is called Llangarreg." Francis nodded in polite incomprehension, and Murray skittered forward and pointed to a mossy, discoloured patch of stone that to the untrained eye, by late-afternoon light, looked like any other patch of stone. "And here's the spiraly bit. The carving. We figure the Druids left the rock here, it must be on a leyline."

"But of course. Does anyone dance around it skyclad?"

"What? No!" The blush that spread over Murray's face looked alarmingly like some painful skin disease.

Mari leaned over to pick up a scrap of paper. The wind gusted; it made an effort to turn her skirt to an impromptu sail, but the skirt was heavy tweed and disinclined to billow. "Not since his sister moved to Cardiff, anyway," she said.

It made Francis look intrigued. It made Murray blush deeper. "Look, we were completely wankered, alright?" he muttered, as if it were honestly something to be ashamed of.

A smile drifted over Francis's face, even as he tugged his fashionable thin coat closer to his body. Mari squinted at the sodden paper. It looked like a torn piece of letter, in an utterly illegible scrawl. "As you've probably gathered," she informed Francis, "there's not much to do around here in the evenings."

\--

Anthony's next plan was modified at a late stage by the sudden addition of "Alouette" to Francis's repertoire. He abandoned stealing the accordion and setting fire to it in favour of sheer distraction. On a Thursday evening, with Murray vanished to choir practice and Francis's house blessedly silent, he nipped over. The thirty-foot walk still left his hair damp. April showers had begun in earnest.

Francis fed him, as was his habit with guests: mushroom crepes and sauvignon blanc, followed by chocolate cake. For some reason he apologized for the meal, which was, it seemed, not up to his usual standards. He was distracted, tired, frustrated by a chapter that refused to come together. Anthony had no idea what Francis was writing. He inquired, and was treated to a meandering bilingual rant on sources located in libraries with odd opening hours, research assistants who do not send things they had promised to send as soon as possible, editors who did not understand that writing speed was a far lesser thing than typing speed, and the low quality of the wine available at both local pubs. He then offered Anthony what he claimed was a fine, worthwhile Burgundy.

It was not until the next morning, groaning unwillingly awake to the shrill noise of his alarm and the bitter knowledge his boss at the general store did not share his views on punctuality, that Anthony recalled he had never gotten the precise topic of Francis's book, nor deployed his planned gentle persuasions.

\--

Saturday dawned damp and miserable. Mari was awoken around eight by the insistent duet of accordion and bagpipies. She told herself it wasn't so bad, from three houses away. Cadoc had it worse, Anthony and Ercwlff much worse. She stuck her head under her pillow.

Twenty minutes later found her hastily clad in last night's clothes, ordering breakfast in the cafe six blocks away. She ordered waffles with strawberry jam and Earl Grey tea - the waffles were an indulgence, but the tea was a necessity. "I think I'm going to murder Murray," she informed the waitress. "Will you help me hide the body?"

Eluned was a tiny, shy woman, disinclined to violence. She raised a hand to her mouth. "I - don't really think - is that necessary?"

"If he keeps playing bagpipes at this hour? Possibly. I'll put poison on the reed. Poetic justice."

"Shotgun is easier," Eluned's brother called from the kitchen. "You can borrow mine."

Murder was overkill, though. The house between her own and the odd one on the end of the row was empty; it had been so for years. Perhaps if she changed the house numbers, moved her things over in the dead of night, pretended she had always lived there and anyone who remembered differently was hallucinatng, and stuffed her old house with soundproofing foam?

No, she'd never get that much soundproofing foam in the car.

\--

"It was tolerable when he only practiced on Saturday and Sunday afternoons," Cadoc said.

Mari, who had enjoyed the increased custom from her near neighbors on Saturday and Sunday afternoons for years, made a noncommital noise.

"Enjoyable, even," he continued. "I suppose bagpipe music is something of an acquired taste, but not a difficult one to acquire. Harmonious."

"Cadoc, has it ever occured to you you're too nice for your own good?" Mari wiped down the last bit of bar with a flourish, and planted her hands on her hips. "The only reason I never took his bagpipes and hit him over the head with them was that most of the time when he started up, I was here. Working."

"Too nice?" Cadoc tried to look offended, but he was far too nice to look offended.

"Exactly. Let me guess, you havn't even gotten to the nasty anonymous note stage yet?" His blush, and attempt to hide behind his pint, proved that he hadn't. "Not that it would do any good, Murray is about as movable as The Rock and Francis appears to care no whits whatsoever about anyone's opinion that isn't how much sugar they want in their coffee."

"So, you've spoken to him socially?"

It was Mari's turn to blush, although not very hard. "He offered me croissants. I don't really want to run him out of town."

"Well, no, apart from the accordion practice he's been a perfectly pleasant neighbor." Cadoc sighed. "I hesitate to resort to the sort of things Anthony keeps suggesting. Do you suppose we could pass a noise ordinance?"

"We don't have one?"

But of course not, because Llangarreg had never before needed one; and of course Cadoc had looked it up.

\--


	3. May

**May**

On the first of May, Mari and Arthur indulged in their usual spring tradition of Fleeing The Country. Mari picked Arthur up by the side of the road, near his cottage. He sprung from behind a tree, loaded the boot looking furtively up and down for other cars, and slumped in the passenger seat with his jacket pulled over his head. In at least one respect this trip was unusual.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know," she told him.

"No, but Murray would never let me live it down. And Morwen would laugh so hard she'd rupture something. She'd only do it once, but still."

"Morwen never shows up in Llangarreg any more."

"But Murray visits her in Cardiff all the sodding time. Look, allow me my shreds of dignity. I don't get any respect around here as it is. You'd think people would at least be polite. I went to Oxford, you know. And I'm the second-best -" He broke off, and sighed heavily, realising perhaps that Mari had heard it all before. Only Arthur would have put his acvomplishments in that order. She kept her silence.

They didn't flee very far - only as far as Hereford. The music shop was just opening; Mari helped Arthur haul in the amplifiers, the cables, the lone sad cymbal on a stand. He carried the guitar himself, cradled in his arms, as far as the door. Then he abruptly turned back and set it in the boot again. Mari fancied she heard him murmuring, "It's alright, baby, I didn't mean it, I would never."

Over cream tea later - that much was usual - she enquired gently if he was planning to keep up some kind of musical hobby, beyond singing in the choir. He shrugged. "I don't know. My sister keeps offering to teach me to play the harp. I'd have to keep borrowing hers, is the trouble. She'd love that. Having me over all the time. Doing me favours." He shuddered. "Be grateful your brother is so easygoing, Mari."

"I don't know that I'd call him easygoing. Remember when we were going out and he chased you out of our house with an axe?"

"But when you got together with Anthony he didn't bat an eye, even though Anthony is an unambitious layabout who could never have shown you the life you deserve."

Neither could Arthur. Their relationship had been five years ago, just before he left for Oxford, and he had honestly tried and been such a sweetheart and a gentleman about it, Mari hated letting people think he'd viciously dumped her, even though he had insisted. Better to be the town cad than the town faggot, he'd said. But here he was, none the better for it, trapped in Llangarreg and living, so far as anyone could tell, off the bitter combination of the dole and his sister's charity.

But he would hate to be reminded of it. Instead she said, "At least your neighbors might like to listen if you played the harp. Murray's gotten insufferable lately."

"Hah." Arthur rolled his eyes and gulped his tea. "He won't come out and say it in so many words, but I think he wants my . . . help, with Francis, you know. To make him give up the accordion."

"And are you going to . . . help?"

"Still considering. Come on. Let's go the cathedral and mock the Mappa Mundi."

There was a lot to mock, but as usual, they drifted into wistful travel plans, and bitter regret that they could flee no further than Hereford, since Mari had work the next afternoon.

\--

There was an unexpected face at choir practice that Thursday evening, surrounded by artfully styled blond hair. Francis looked positively angelic, in fact. Murray stared openly.

"What're you doing here?" he hissed, at the first break.

"Singing. Oh, don't look so astonished, Murray. You know I appreciate music."

"I thought you were Catholic! You've got that icon up in your kitchen!"

"What the Pope doesn't know won't hurt him, and I expect he has enough to worry about now, mmm?" Francis waved a hand. "Besides, there's no rule about singing for other churches, only taking communion. You can't tell me I'm the only one here who won't."

Murray, who never had, looked nervously at his sister, who never had either. "Fair enough," he said, because he hated to argue.

\--

The house on one end of the block belonged to Anthony and Ercwlff. Legally, it was their landlord's, but morally, they considered, it was theirs. They lived in it, kept it in as good repair as their limited incomes but abundant free time allowed. They had never added living space, cramped though they were, but under their auspices the garden had developed flowers, and the exterior was washed until the dark grey was a much lighter grey with less moss.

The house on the other end belonged to Tewdwr Price, proprietor of the Green Man, morally and legally. He lived there alone, ever since a bitter divorce a dozen years back; in his tenure the house had sprouted a garage, windows from the attic, elaborate wooden crenellations, and a glass-roofed thing he called a conservatory where the back porch used to be. The front door was decorated with painted vines. Ercwlff knocked on it with some annoyance. This had been Anthony's idea.

"It's about Murray," he said. "Can you hear him down here, Mr. Price?"

"Unfortunately." Tewdwr winced.

Ercwlff shrugged. "We're not sure what to do about it."

"I don't know. He's gotten so much more dedicated lately." Tewdwr frowned at his teacup. "It's a feedback loop, is the problem, they're egging each other on. If Francis just stopped for a while . . . "

"Murray might go back to a few hours a week."

"Or celebrate his triumph with more bagpipe music."

"Maybe."

"So what do you expect me to do about it? He's not even my customer. Neither of them are."

"I don't expect anything." Ercwlff shrugged again. "But Anthony said if you thought of . . . something that worked, he'd start being your customer instead."

There were wrinkles at the corners of Tewdwr's eyes, stress lines, but they still crinkled behind his messy fringe when he smiled. "Arguably, I'm not the best person to ask."

"He's still not talking to Arthur. Or his sister." Ercwlff leaned back, relaxing a little. Even the portrait photograph of Tewdwr's ex-wife, glaring down from over the fireplace like a particularly lacy avenging angel, didn't disturb him. The worst that could happen, after all, was that Tewdwr didn't help and they had to buy earmuffs. "You're sensible enough, and you have a stake in making them stop."

With the air of a man who wondered how he kept getting himself into these things, Tewdwr promised to consider it.

\--

Arthur was mumbling to himself, lost in thought, when Murray's oversized hand descended over Mr. Robert's hedge and hauled him up by the shoulder. He yelped, and contemplated accidentally stabbing his brother with the pruning shears. No one so big should move so quietly.

"You did this bush yesterday," Murray rumbled. "No eavesdropping today. Francis went to town."

"Oh, good, our ears need a rest." Arthur brushed off his knees. "I don't see why you talk to him so much. He's an arrogant twat. An arrogant French twat."

"And you're an arrogant half-English twat and I should've left you out for the wolves when you were a wee lad, but I put up with you anyway for your better qualities." Murray clapped him on the shoulder, bruising-hard.

The _half-English_ rankled, because it was pure speculation and quite irrelevant, anyway. "Good to know. Has he stopped piaying Chrstmas music yet? I only ask because I can't hear him. You know. From my cottage on the other side of town."

"You mean cowshed," Murray said automatically, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. "Aye, he's moved on to polka tunes. Says that's what they are, anyway."

"Maddening, isn't it?"

"Well. Tiresome."

Arthur nodded, and waved the pruning shears at Francis's house. "The man's an artist, what can I say. Brought it on yourself, really. It would practically be malpractice to help you. You can come up to the adit tomorrow and try to persuade me, but I'll laugh at you."

They glared at each other. The brothers both had green eyes, thick eyebrows - sandy blond and auburn respectively - and both were first-class glarers, just the right mix of annoyance and contempt. They held it so long the only polite way to break each other's gazes was the classic faked-coughing-with-sudden-watch-check, which lacked a certain something as Murray didn't wear a watch. Then Murray went back to his tea and Arthur to his imitation gardening.

\--

Saturday nights were generally uneventful in Llangarreg. There were no hopping nightspots, no theatres. There were the Angel and the Green Man, and such of the population as had neither the inclination to stay comfortably at home nor the wherewithal to go into town could be found at one or the other.

On this evening, the rain had driven more people than usual to an early night, but a handful still graced the Angel. Murray was one; he sat curled over his pint, disinclined to conversation. But there was enough noise, still, that at the other end of the room Cadoc, Anthony, and Ercwlff could hold what Cadoc called 'a meeting' and Anthony called 'the first council of the Defenders of the Peace of Llangarreg', in relative privacy.

"I spoke to Mr. Price," Anthony said. He hadn't, strictly speaking, but Ercwlff didn't argue. "He said he'd consider helping."

Cadoc's brow furrowed. "That seems a bit extreme."

"Nah, he's only a hobbyist, really. Extreme would be calling in a professional. And if Murray weren't -"

"I meant that we might try negotiation first?"

Ercwlff sighed. "Cadoc, we're not dealing with ten-year-olds."

"Exactly. As grown men -"

" - they're stubborn as rocks, spoiling for a fight, and you can't threaten to call their parents," Ercwlff interrupted. "Come on, Cadoc, just because you have tell children about the essential goodness of mankind doesn't mean you have to believe it."

"Nontheless, I do. But for the sake of argument, asuming they don't respond to reason and Mr. Price declines to help, what options do we have?"

They thought for a while. Then Anthony offered, bright and cheery, "I could start playing drums! I bet that'd do it. They'd have to team up against a common enemy!"

"Let me rephrase that," Cadoc told him. "What options do we have that won't make things worse?"

\--

Francis did not attend church the next morning.

"He called me from Chester," Murray muttered to his brother. "Said he'd be back Tuesday. " Arthur nodded sagely, and did not comment on how absurd it was Francis had bothered to call.

\--

In the afternoon, as threatened, Murray showed up at the adit.

There were three adits in the hills near Llangarreg. One was so popular with young people looking for some privacy in pairs that a matresss had been left there; one was near and easily found, if inexplicably colder. Of course, Arthur had set up instead in the third, only accessible by clambering over a rockfall and through a thornbush. Murray arrived dusty and cursing, and pounded on the door he'd been guilt-tripped into helping his brother install twenty feet back.

It opened to reveal an eerie green glow, Arthur framed ominously in it, but his shoulders slumped when he recognized his brother. "What do you want? You wouldn't be here if - hey, that cost money!"

"No it didn't, you nicked it off our sister," Murray informed him, and kicked aside the other crate, which landed on its side with a rattle. He snatched the green cloth from the lantern, and the bright yellow light flickered over the cave, still casting odd shadows from its floor-height perch. "You know, you could try working out of a basement like she does, not coming up here where anybody who wants to talk to you has to be a bloody mountain goat. You ever thought maybe that's how come you get no custom? Well, that and you're - "

" - not going to help someone who starts by insulting me," Arthur hisses. "And I don't have a basement, Murray, you should know that, you invade my cottage often enough."

"Can't I keep an eye on my little brother?"

"I should charge you admission, that'd keep you out." But Arthur settled back into his chair, arms crossed. "I take it you're here about Francis? And, having the self-awareness to know you'd only make his house fall down or break every tool in his kitchen or give him hives, you have come to a more subtle practitioner. Myself."

"He's not a bad bloke. Stands his round." Murray glowered. "Look, I only came here because I thought it'd give you something to do."

"What precisely did you have in mind?"

Twenty minutes later Arthur was muttering, looking for ingredients, complaining that he'd have to sit up late to finish it. Murray smirked, and began whistling as he emerged into the sunlight.

\--

Francis returned, as promised, on Tuesday. Murray promptly invited him down to the Angel for a drink, and hurried him away before he could notice that Arthur was lurking in the vicinity of his garden. Francis went willingly. Of late his poor opinion of the Angel's wine selection had been tempered by his discovery of its quite decent whisky section.

"Have a good time in Chester?" he opened.

"Well enough." He waved a hand, dismissing Chester and all its accoutrements. "I expect Edinburgh will be more interesting; I might have to travel there in a few weeks, unless my research assistant has a - brusque bout of competence. Ah, perhaps that is not the word?"

"Abrupt, I think you mean."

"I do apologise. My English is - not perfect."

"Eh, don't worry. Nobody here'll give you grief about it." Murray clapped him on the shoulder. "Except Art. He went to Oxford, you know. Must know. He makes sure everybody knows."

"Such a tiresome fellow." Francis, again, waved a hand in casual dismissal, removing Arthur from the universe of worthy conversational topics. "Have you ever been to Edinburgh?"

"Nah. Never even been to London." Murray's slghtly wistful expression looked out of place on his craggy, cheerful face. "Just Cardiff. M'sister lives there, you know. Morwen. She's always telling me I should move down there with her."

"Ah. And are you planning to?"

Murray shrugged helplessly. "I like it here. It's . . . it's quiet. Well, you know that, you moved here. Why here?"

"Llangareg in specific?" He still mispronounced it. "Because, as you said, it is quiet. Because the scenery is gorgeous. Because I can buy fresh milk. Because it is within sensible travel distance of Paris and Edinburgh both, without being in England. I almost hired a place in Eenrum, you know. Near Groningen," he helpfully added, at Murray's blank look. "But my English is more skilled than my Dutch. And the scenery here is better."

"Why d'you need to be close? To Paris and Edinburgh?"

"For the book. Research."

Murray nodded, as if it made perfect sense.

They drank in companionable silence for a while. Then Francis murmured, swirling his whisky about his glass, "If you have never been to Paris, you must visit. I'll take you with me when I visit this July, how's that?"

"Uh. That's very kind of you -"

"Very selfish, actually. I shall be driving fourteen hundred kilometres in a fifteen-year-old Citroen; it seems only sensible to bring my own mechanic."

It could have gone either way, and for a second a careful observer might have seen Francis go tense, as if preparing a flippant remark, some simple way to show he had meant none of it. But then Murray laughed, loud, hearty, and perfectly sincere.

\--

"Hey, do you hear something?"

Anthony blinked over his very strong black tea. "'S eight in the mornin'. M'not awake yet. Ask me later."

Ercwlff shrugged, and returned to pouring out cat food.

\--

By eleven Ercwlff was quite sure he heard something,, like a distant swarm of bees. He shook his head hard and went to put the kettle on. When its whistling had abated he decided to put on a record, but before he could the noise of an accordion erupted from the wall.

He did not recognise the tune; it was not one of those that had become entirely too familiar over the past few weeks. The hesitance with which it was played suggested that the musician was none too familiar with the tune, either. Ercwlff settled in the armchair with the broken springs and attempted to enjoy it nonetheless but ten minutes of effort left him with teeth on edge.

Cadoc was, of course, at work. Ercwlff let himself in with the key from beneath the flowerpot, retrieved the ear protectors from their accustomed drawer, and returned to his own house, seething quietly.

The accordion ceased by noon. It resumed at six that evening, but only in response to the wailing bagpipes from the third house in the row. They played their screeching duet for upwards of two hours; Ercwlff had departed by the end of the first.

\--

The second meeting of the Defenders of the Peace of Llangarreg went better than the first, but only by virtue of the attendees being too angry to bicker.

"They've _done something_ ," Ercwlff muttered. "Well, at least Murray has. Did Mr. Price make his move yet?"

"If he had," Anthony replied, "would we be at the Angel?"

Cadoc sighed the sigh of a natural skeptic surrounded by the improbable, and took a long gulp of stout. "I grant that the situation seems to have . . . deteriorated somewhat, but it might be a one-tome abberation -"

"Bet you ten quid Murray got Arthur to help." 

Cadoc and Anthony regarded this suggestion with dismay.

"And probably," Ercwlff continued, "Arthur didn't feel it necessary to take the neighbours into account. Remember the Haunted Morris Minor?"

They all three winced; Anthony took a nerve-steadying sip of lager. Then he noticed it had been the last in his glass, and cast a pitiful look at Cadoc. Cadoc sighed, and shoved his chair back.

"Three of the same?" Mari asked brightly when he reached the bar. 

He nodded, gave a dull blink, and fished a crumpled ten-pound note from his pocket. Then he frowned. "Mari, have you seen Arthur about?"

"He's probably at the Green Man." She shrugged. "What are you wanting him for?"

"Professional things. You know." Cadoc's voice dropped to a mutter. "Not for Mr. Price's ears."

Mari tapped her fingers on the bar, eyes narrowing. "Is this to do with Murray? You could ask their sister, you know, she knows how to keep quiet."

It was possible. It seemed a pity to bother her; Cadoc had always found her more than somewhat offputting. But if there was something seriously wrong, she'd need to be brought in regardless. Cadoc did understand the value of an expert. He collected his change and gathered his nerves for the argument he was about to have with Anthony.

\--

At choir practice the next day there was an air of tension, various of the members snapping at each other as they tried not to drip too noticably. Rhys Evans kept interrupting himself with coughs until his wife Bethan pointedly asked if he was coming down with something, and the subsequent row drove a suspicious number of non-smokers out for a cigarette break. Murray and his sister huddled under a tree - she with an actual cigarette, he with a forced smile - until Francis ducked under the same tree, and it turned real. "There you are!"

"Here I am," Francis amiably agreed. "Might I borrow a - fag, I think the term is?" Murray glowered at nothing in particular while his sister offered the pack, to Francis's murmured thanks. 

They smoked in mutual silence, ignoring the shouts insife the hall for a while, and then Murray declared, "So I'm going to Cardiff, Saturday week. Morwen says she needs someone to help her eat a chicken."

"Ah, yes. The sister I havn't met." Francis tilted his head. "You two are twins, I understand?"

"Aye, since we was born." Murray grinned the grin of a man who felt some jokes never got old. "She has all the cookery skills for the both of us."

"And that is why you keep inviting yourself to supper?" He winked to take the sting off; they were on good enough terms, now, that Murray would not take it amiss.

He didn't. He laughed aloud, and then clapped Francis on the back. "I'll make it up to you! Come down with me, you should meet her, she'll like you."

"It would be my pleasure." He really did look like it would be, too.

There was a crash from inside the hall, and Murray winced. A few moments later the door banged open and Rhys stormed out, raincoat clutched in one fist. He turned long enough to shout back, " _Fine! I quit!_ " It would have been more impressive if his voice hadn't been so hoarse. The eyes of the dozen smokers and putative-smokers who had stationed themselves within view of the door followed him down the lane; he didn't bother putting the coat on before he vanished around the corner.

Murray sighed. "I don't know why they're still married," he said to no one in particular. "They've no children to stay together for."

"Inertia, if that is the word." Francis shrugged. 

"I don't know why they got married to begin with, they've always fought."

"Perhaps the sex was very good."

Murray went deep red and coughed. "Yes, well, if Rhys has really quit we'll have to do some rearranging, he was our best tenor. I should be getting back inside. Ceri? You coming in, or you going to finish your lung-ruining cancer stick?"

His sister took a deep drag, then blew a perfect smoke ring. It hovered in the damp air, wavering at the edges. "You've been after me to quit for twenty-three years," she informed him, "and yet. Sod off."

\--

It was hard to prove conclusively that the accordion noise was _twice_ as loud, but it was louder, and that was enough. Anthony paced through the house in an attempt to find a quieter spot, and failed. He lay down on Ercwlff's bed, since it was one wall further away, with a pillow over his head. He got up and tried folding it over his head while he got through half a chapter of _Master and Commander_. He gave it up as a bad job and went downstairs for a cup of tea, pillow still pressed awkwardly to his ears, which took two hands and interfered with his peripheral vision, which was probably why he tripped over a cat.

He lay at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his bruised elbow, and decided to indulge in some theraputic cursing. The cat regarded him with disdain and pity, and went back to grooming her tail.

Whatever Arthur had done, Anthony decided, he would undo on pain of pain. Anthony was not afraid to break his nose again.

The noise abruptly receded when he walked in front of Murray's house, and he briefly contemplated hiding out at Cadoc's, but - Arthur lived on the other side of town, well out of earshot. He needed to understand the seriousness of the situation. He needed to share their suffering.

He needed, Anthony concluded a glum half-hour later, to be in his damned cottage and not vanish when he had dissatisfied customers. But Arthur had vanished regardless. Anthony concluded that what he, Anthony, truly needed right now, was a pint. 

\--

Tuesday dawned bright and clear. Mr. Roberts had begun to wonder why his grass was so long; he asked Eluned at the café, tremulously demanding, and didn't seem to understand her soft demurrals. Mari, overhearing, decided to go take care of it herself that evening. She finished her toast with a warm sense of righteousness.

Afterwards she went to The Rock. There was no one else around, but as usual, there were crisp wrappers littering the greensward. Mari checked under the bushes, just from morbid curiousity, but there were no condom wrappers. Too damp. In weather like this the excessively libidinous went up to the adit, and the sensible stayed in their own warm, comfortable beds with no-one stealing the covers. 

She sat down on the little stone bench, pulled the battered paperback novel from her purse, and settled in. Even in weather like this there might be a tourist or two, and Mari had come to share Arthur's opinion that someone should be ready to greet them and tell them horrible lies. It passed the time until her shift started, at least.

\--

"The thing is," Anthony told Ercwlff earnestly over his bottle, "he's actually good." 

Ercwlff, on the sofa, frowned. The cat on his lap pricked an ear, and the one he was absently petting yawned, exposing her very sharp teeth. "Good?"

"Well, now he is. He has a knack."

"I'd hope so, with his family."

"What? What does his family have to do with it?"

"Runs in familes, doesn't it?"

"Well, sometimes," Anthony conceded, and waved his hands at nothing in particular. "But how did you know? Who are they? He never talks about his family."

Ercwlff blinked, several times, slowly and deliberately. "Anthony, they live right here in town. Except Morwen."

"What? Is he someone's, I don't know what you call it, love child? And that doesn't explain how you know, and the only Morwen I know is Murray's sister in Cardiff -" He broke off. "Oh. _Ooooooooh._ Is that why he came to Llangerreg?"

"Of course he's _someone's_ love child," Ercwlff answered in bewilderment. "I mean, they were separated, he didn't turn up here until he was a year old, Murray keeps making those half-English cracks. Which isn't really fair of him. It's not like anyone can help being English."

"What? He's French! Well, half-French, if the love child thing -"

"Since when has Arthur been any kind of French?" Ercwlff would have been yelling, if he were the kind of person to yell.

Anthony, effectively derailed, blinked at his bottle. "Huh? I'm talking about Francis."

"Oh."

There was a long, awkward pause as both men reviewed the conversation and slotted in the more appropriate referents. 

"He is good, though," Anthony finally continued. "Which is, Francis is tolerably good at playing the accordion. Maybe we should just leave things be."

That, at least, made Ercwlff laugh. He didn't laugh enough, in Anthony's opinion. 

\--

The car started making a funny noise halfway to Cardiff, and Murray swore, but didn't pull over. "This thing runs on hope," he explained at Francis's worried look. "I hope she'll get us there and back before it breaks down, she eats it up and does. Works any time."

"She?"

"Aye." Murray reached out to pat the dash affectionately.

Francis didn't press the issue, and they finished the drive in silence, encouraged by the car's racuous contribution.

Morwen lived in a flat on the third floor; Murray took the stairs up, and arrived some time ahead of Francis, who trailed him panting and wheezing. He was too busy hugging his sister to comment. They held on as tightly as if it had been years, not weeks, since they had met, and then Murray introduced Francis and shoved him into Morwen's arms as well. They were obvious siblings - both tall, solidly-built, with messy dark hair and green eyes, and a certain glint of warm amusement in those eyes that made him suddenly, sharply homesick. Francis ignored it, kissed Morwen on both cheeks in continental fashion - she laughed - and waved them inside. Her flat smelled of incense.

"Are you ever bringing Ceri with you? Sure and I'd love to see her sometime," Morwen asked, hands on hips, as Francis hung up their coats. 

"What? And get her in _my car?_ " Murray snorted. "Looking to open a skating rink in Tartarus?"

She sighed, and landed heavily on the sofa. "I don't know what her problem is."

"I might persuade Art, if you miss him at all." He slid in beside her, and planted his feet on the coffeetable.

"But I saw him last week."

"What?"

"Didn't he tell you? He was down here three days." She blinked at him. "Said he had business, and I hadn't the heart to slam the door. Saw Clive Sinjon pick him up on the corner in a new car. Twice." Her voice was dark with the suggestion of dirty laundry, not to be mentioned before a relative stranger.

"So that's where he got to."

"Wonder what his _business_ was." She made a distasteful face.

Francis seated himself carefully in the armchair. "Forgive me for prying," he offered, "but what, precisely, does Arthur do for a living? I seem to see him at all hours." 

"Hah!" Murray threw back his head. "Collects dole checks, mostly. Does old folks' gardening. This and that. He's an arrogant little half-English wanker and he hasn't been all right since he was sent down from Oxford."

"Sent down? Forgive me, my English is not perfect," he added for Morwen's benefit.

"Expelled. Removed. Made an ex-student."

"He set fire to his tutor," Morwen put in, with a grin, and sprung up from the sofa. "Want a drink? There's Guiness, or Carling, or I could put the kettle on."

Francis blinked. "Tea," he said. "And, ah, 'tutor', that means a study room, correct?"

"Means a teacher. Lucky he wasn't sent down to Wormwood Scrubs. For a prison term," Murray helpfully clarified. "But they never proved it was him."

This did not accord in the least with his impression of Arthur, who had struck Francis as bad-tempered in that wonderfully British mold that would express contempt by apologizing when you stepped on their toes. 

\--

By the time the chicken came out of the oven, Francis had most of the story of Morwen and Murray's parents' marriage. It was suitably operatic, or at least soap-operatic. They had married, thirty-nine years ago, five months before the birth of their elder daughter. They had argued constantly - over money, over their children, over the superiority of football or fencing as a sport - between bouts of passionate affection, every few years separated, then made up. The most dramatic separation had seen the twins left behind in Llangarreg with their father, while their mother took Ceri to Norwich for the better part of two years, and returned with an infant - thus the 'half-English' Murray kept tossing into Arthur's description. Presumptive. Six years ago they had decided, at long last, to divorce. They made an appointment with a lawyer, set out for it in a spring thunderstorm, skidded their car off the road and off a cliff and died on impact. They were buried side-by-side. "Ma would have liked the irony," Morwen confided.

"She seems like a fascinating woman."

"Aye, but an odd duck." Murray shook his head. "Who calls their daughter Ceridwen?"

Francis resolved to look up the name later, and shrugged. "Someone who liked the sound of it? I have a cousin called Célestine. Nobody off the stage is called Célestine." Murray just blinked at that, but Morwen smothered a laugh in her sleeve as she pulled a carving knife from a drawer. 

"You know, I think that's the first time you've ever mentioned your family to me."

It was. It was, and he had been damnably careless, but the twins were so easy with each other it was a challenge not to be caught up. He had gotten maudlin. Well - may as well be hanged for a sheep. English had such colourful idioms. "My family no longer speak to me," Francis told them. There: the lamb.

"What? Why not?" Already Murray sounded indignant. 

Francis counted off the sheep on his fingers. "One: I kissed a boy, and then said I loved him. Two: My great-aunt Marianne left me all her fortune. Three: when they suddenly forgave me upon discovering the terms of her will, I did not forgive them."

Murray gaped for a second, then managed, "I see."

"You had no call to forgive them, lad," Morwen told him, voice soft and angry. "Not if they were so mercenary about it."

"I was mercenary enough to move and leave no forwarding address." He sniffs. "It's hardly relevant now; I associate with far more pleasant people, most of the time."

"Nobody in Llangarreg's said anything, right?" Murray looked honestly distressed at the prospect; it warmed Francis's heart. "I suppose they can't've, if you havn't said anything. But look, if it gets out and they do I can give them a talking to. It's the Eighties, they should know better."

"I do appreciate the offer, but it should not become necessary. I am far too busy for romance these days."

Morwen, without asking, deposited a drumstick on his plate. "Running around researching your book?" It was a very clear offer to change the subject. At least someone at the table had tact.

"I am beginning to question the wisdom of using research assistants, even if it has spared me many hours of driving." He sniffed, and took a sip of Guiness. "It might have been simpler to move to Edinburgh. Or at least select a topic that could be researched entirely in France, but after last time I wished for something more . . . upbeat, if that is the word?"

Morwen nodded. "What was so sad about your last book?"

"It was about the phylloxera." That was worth a shudder, Francis felt; of course then he had to explain to them why phylloxera was so dreadful.

\--

Anthony caught Arthur by the simple expedient of lurking outside the Green Man and accosting him as soon as he was nearby. "It's about Francis," he informed him with as much menace as he could muster.

Arthur twisted his arm free, grimacing. "What about him?"

"He's louder now. I don't know if you did something to his hearing and he's compensating, or something to Murray's wall and it's bouncing -" from Arthur's guilty look, it was the second - "but it has to stop before we do something drastic."

"I accepted a contract from an interested third party. Sod off."

"We're not done," Anthony tried to say, but Arthur had vanished inside. He sighed; going in now would only mean a barfight. At least Arthur knew.

\--

Cadoc showed up in the Angel, Wednesday night, with a stack of papers and a slightly haggard look. He took a corner table and asked for a lager and a beef sandwich. Mari added chips unprompted, since he always forgot to ask. It looked like essays, poor man. Still, he didn't typically drink and mark.

Her suspicions were confirmed by the arrival of Ercwlff, alone for once and sporting an impressive set of scratches down the forearm. He demanded whisky, in a growl. "Whatever kind is cheapest, I don't care, fill the glass."

"Noisy at home?"

"They're both going at it. I think they're trying to drown each other out. Have you ever heard 'Cwm Rhondda' on the accordion?"

"No."

"Being played by a rank amatuer," Ercwlff muttered, "does not improve it."

\--

Rhys came back to choir practice the next evening, although late, and he sat as far away from Bethan as possible. She nodded at her husband with smug serenity, and returned to coaching ten-year-old Huw Price on a tricky set of high notes. 

Francis seemed deeply amused. Murray didn't care to speculate why. He resolutely ignored it until practice finished, and kept ignoring it as he said goodnight to his sister, then ducked outside and under Francis's helpfully-raised umbrella. It was oversized, and banner-red. "Thanks."

"Welcome." Francis waved in idle dismissal, and they kept step easily as they made their way to the street.The silence between them was easy and companionable, and they were most of the way home before Francis enquired, "Do you know a song called 'Cachau Bant'?" 

Murray made a noise like a frog being strangled, and when Francis looked over in concern his face was red. "What - I don't - " He took a breath. "Who said that?"

"Is something the matter? Anthony said I should try it on the accordion."

"He was having you on, mate." Murray shook his head, flush subsiding. "S'not a song. It's. Uh. An insult. He shouldn't have said that."

"Ah, one of _those_." 

"He doesn't like the accordion." Murray shrugged, far too casual for a man who had tormented his neighbors with bagpipes for years. They stepped around a puddle, took a left turn, and there was the little row of terraced houses, looming alone at the end of the lane like a castle on a blasted moor in the dusk. "It's an acquired taste. You do get a wee bit loud." He almost sounded sorry. 

Well. Good to know Murray had, at least, noticed. "It is an art. And surely he is used to the sound of loud music by now?"

"Music, aye, but I don't play the same thing over and over and over."

"Practice makes perfect, I believe,is your saying. But of course you are correct; he must be accustomed to no piece ever being entirely right."

"Sure he's getting practice at that, next to your house."

Francis paused, one hand on his front gate. There was only one possible response to such friendly politeness; he had no desire to back down. "Do you want to come in for a drink?"

"I do." Murray planted his hands on his hips.

"Splendid."

\--

On Friday Murray, uncharacteristically, came home for lunch. He found Arthur crouched beside his flowerbed, waving a trowel and muttering, and hauled him to his feet. "You have something against gladiolas? Or are you nicking them? Leave them be, Art."

"Give me some credit," Arthur said with stern dignity once the sqwawking died down. "The corms should only be dug up in autumn after the leaves die. And spend the winter indoors to avoid frost damage. Which I notice you didn't do last year. You should just let me take charge of your garden," he added, viciously waving the trowel. "I'd give you a family discount."

"Hah! I could take it off the rent you still owe me." He clapped Arthur on the back, while his brother sputtered. "Come on in, I'll make you a sandwich. Free."

Arthur seemed suspicious, and so Murray waited until he was a dozen bites in and remembering how hungry he was before saying, "So Morwen tells me you met Clive again a few weeks back."

"And why should you give a rat's arse?" He was hunching his shoulders, though.

"Because of what happened last time?"

"He wasn't responsible. He tried to stop it."

"No so hard he'd tell his ma and pa to go jump in the lake."

"That's a lot to ask of a man."

Murray snorted, and took another bite of his own sandwich, to give himself time to sound reasonable. "S'been done plenty. One thing if he'd nowhere else to go, fair enough, but you cannot tell me Clive Sinjon Doublebarrelled-Name couldn't have talked some crony into feeling sorry and giving him a job licking stamps. And now I find out you've, what, spent the last five years exchanging perfumed love-notes? How stupid are you, you little cunt?" Alright, that hadn't sounded reasonable at all.

"Occassional letters. Typewritten. He said he had a business opportunity that might interest me."

"For a layabout on the dole who left university two terms in?"

Arthur raised his eyebrows and laid his sandwich flat on the plate with excessive care. "He's in love with me."

That was _stupid_. That was well beyond Arthur's usual stupidity of hair-trigger temper and stubborn inability to take charity. "You believe that? What are you, twelve? He just wants someone warm and convenient and disposable! Men like him always do, don't you know anythink about posh toffs? You bloody _idiot_!"

It was a while before Arthur answered. When he did, he lowered his eyes. "He believes he loves me. He'll be so stupid over it he'll never notice me cleaning him out. I know how posh toffs think." He sounded so tired, and so bitter, that Murray could not find a reply.

\--

When Francis mentioned idly, after church, that he was going to Edinburgh the next day, Murray asked in the tones of a man approaching a painful topic when he had last changed his oil. When Francis had to think to remember, Murray gaped in horror, demanded his car keys, and announced he was going to give the Citroen a check-up right away. Francis acquiesed with a shrug, and headed to the Angel rather than go home and fail to write.

For once, it was deserted. Mari was polishing the glasses in a desultory sort of way. She brightened when he stepped inside. "What'll you have?"

"Is there any of your excellent whisky I have not tried?"

Mari frowned as she worked it out. "Well, there's dust on the Laphroiag bottle, I don't think we've opened it this year. But you have to like peat."

"I shall risk it."

She wiped it down and poured him a glass, and he sipped it without a 'grimace. Mari seemed a little shocked by this, but Francis had found himself far more open to adventure with whiskies than with wines. Wine was a passion; whisky was a drink. He smiled at Mari, as charmingly as he could. "Worth the risk, I think."

"Oh, good. I was beginning to think it was a complete waste of shelf space."

"Nonsense. If nobody liked it, the original distillers would have disposed of the lot, not sold it to pubs." Another long sip, and the glass was almost empty. "Another, perhaps? And something for yourself?" That was such a charming way of approaching the _pourboire_ , even if it made arranging things for one drink an inconvenience.

To his slight surprise, she poured one for herself right away, and came around to sit beside him. The surprise must have shown; Mari smirked. "We're not open for an hour. I have time for a pint."

"Ah - I do apologize, I did not mean to intrude -"

"Oh, if I cared I would have chucked you out. The company's nice, you know?" She sighed. "I don't have much of a social life. Not that there's much to do here in the evenings, but I don't do it because I'm here, serving beer to everyone else who isn't doing it. Except the people at the Green Man."  
"  
Francis chuckled. "I am honored you consider me good company."

"You're exotic," she told him frankly. "Which makes you interesting."

"What, purely for my charming accent?"

"And your vast knowledge of wine, which gives me a professional interest. Not that most people in this town could tell a claret from a merlot. Or from an Irn Bru." Mari sighed.

"I've never heard of _irnbru_. Is it a German strain?" He had thought he knew most German wines.

"Hah! It's Scottish. Not a wine. Type of orange soda."

That left Francis blinking, but he smiled. "Well, perhaps I shall try it anyway. I am going to Edinburgh all this week."

Mari looked fascinated by this prospect. She took a few thoughtful sips, then offered, "There's a lot to see there. Any plans?"

"Alas, most of my time will be spent in libraries. But perhaps I will manage a museum visit." He smiled suddenly as an idea occurred to him. "Or a distillery."

"I didn't know you were so interested in whisky."

"I am not, but the contrast to a winery should be interesting. And perhaps I can bring back some bottles? You and I could taste them all, some night when you do not work. Determine which ones to order in quantity if you wish to expand your selection."

Mari's eyes were very warm, and her eyelids fluttered. "Of course. That would be lovely." Francis realised, with a slight catch in his breath, that he might just have asked her on a date, purely by accident. Ah, well - perhaps he would invite Mr. Price as well. That should keep things simple; they hardly had the scope for a professional rivalry.

\--

With Francis gone, there was peace for most of three days. Cadoc caught up with his marking at home, Mari caught up with her reading, and Ercwlff caught up with his sleep, frequently on the sofa surrounded by cats. Anthony, in too good a mood to complain now that Llangarreg was approaching warm and sunny, opened all the windows and let the smell of bakestones drift into the street. 

Murray, on Wednesday, closed the garage. He spent the morning cleaning out his office; in the afternoon he vanished, by car, and returned with a massive box buckled carefully into the passenger seat. Then he walked home, and began practicing bagpipes. Mari found out the former from Rhys Evans, who had seen him carrying the mysterious box inside, and the latter from Anthony and Cadoc, who arrived together after a half-hour of practice. Moved to sympathy, she gave them their first pints on the house.

"I wish Tewdwr Price would make up his mind about . . . helping," Anthony confided. "I said I'd switch locals. Er. And I shouldn't have said that to you, should I?"

He would have had little else to offer. Mari sighed. "It's fine, I'd just feel obliged, in a neighborly way, to tell him about the eighty-seven pounds. I wonder if Murray knows where we could get a wheel boot?" 

Anthony went as pale as he could, which wasn't very. "As if you could sell the Clio for that much."

"Perhaps if we broke it up for parts." She did her best to look thoughtful; Cadoc looked somewhere between amused and terrified.

"If you didn't want people to run up their tab you shouldn't give credit."

"We don't. You got an exception, because your grandfather owns the Angel. I expect he'd cancel it if I told him how you abused it."

"Look, we have to buy groceries! And cat food! You wouldn't want the poor little moggies to starve, would you?"

"You could stop drinking." Mari folded her arms. It wasn't as if the Angel couldn't absorb the loss, but there was a principle to it. This was the man who'd once borrowed five pounds from her to buy her flowers. 

Anthony seemed to wilt. "It was a bad idea anyway," he muttered. "We couldn't have talked him into it. He doesn't like to interfere."

\--

The Green Man was a place of myriad virtues. For one, it was quiet. Perhaps it was the low celing and the wallhangings, or that its regulars tended to the brooding heavy drinkers, rather than the sociable folk of the Angel. Perhaps Tewdwr Price simply liked the quiet, and had, as a skilled amatuer, imposed his will on the world. Ercwlff hoped for the last. He also hoped Mr. Price would be a little more willing to interfere if the request was properly phrased.

Arthur was nowhere in sight, but his sister had taken a place at one end of the bar, talking quietly to Tewdwr. He nodded as she illustrated some point by tracing a shape in the air, the glowing end of her cigarette trailing smoke. That was good; he would only need to explain once. Ercwlff settled onto the next stool and planted his elbows on the bar.

Tewdwr smiled at him. "What are you having?" Ceri, beside him, frowned and put out her cigarette.

"Coffee."

That got a look of surprise, but Tewdwr went to make it without complaint. Ercwlff pulled out his wallet and debated whether buying Ceri a drink would help. Couldn't hurt, but she had half a pint left. Perhaps he would get her next one.

When the coffee arrived he asked Tewdwr, "Would you consider Arthur your customer?"

"I should hope so, with the tab he runs." His eyes crinkled; there was obviously no deep resentment. "Why?"

"Because you said you couldn't help with Murray and Francis, since neither of them were your customers. Well, now Arthur's stuck his oar in, and the result is that our house is getting twice the accordion noise and Murray is presumably enjoying the peace and quiet. Arthur said he'd done it on contract. Will you at least undo it on contract so they have to put up with each other again?" Tewdwr's eyes flickered over to Ceri in alarm. She raised her eyebrows. Ercwlff determinedly ignored them. If Ceri wanted to interfere she would have to offer; he wasn't going to ask her to take sides against her own family. "I've always heard undoing that sort of thing is simpler than doing it. Anthony's skint, so am I, but we'd owe you a favor." He took a soothing gulp of coffee. That was more words all at once than he could usually be bothered with. 

"It is." Tewdwr's brow furrowed. He laid a hand flat on the bar. He sighed. "You're going to talk me into this eventually, aren't you?" 

"I hope so." 

"Right. No point in arguing. You know where Francis keeps his spare key? Most likely I'll need to get in his house." 

"I don't think he knows he has one. I know where Mrs. Price probably left it." 

"Right. I'll meet you there at half past midnight." 

"Thank you." 

"Don't worry about the favor. If I can do something about this mess it will be a _public service._ I don't doubt Arthur did something that made perfect sense at the time, but he - well - " He evidently didn't want to slander the man in front of his sister; he broke off and rubbed his temples. "At least I can undo it. Maybe I can improve it so it's not so unbalanced." 

Ceri was fumbling out another cigarette. "Please, no explosions," she said. "I would feel professionally obliged to investigate." 

"And you don't now?" Tewdwr smiled at her. It was an oddly fond expression, not at all his friendly-barkeeper expression. Ercwlff wondered if he should retreat and leave them to whatever they had been talking about. 

"Like you said, undoing is easier than doing. If you injure yourself over this, you deserve it. If Francis's house gets damaged ... well, he's not from around here. He won't know why, or who to blame." She shrugged. "He probably wouldn't believe you if you told him." 

Ercwlff applied himself to his coffee. At least now Anthony would stop nagging him. 

\--


	4. June, Part 1

**June**

At forty minutes past midnight, two figures in rain parkas lurked beside Francis's front door. One of them was patting the ground frantically. A careful observer would have heard muttering about a rock. After a moment, the figure apparently found the rock in question. It straightened up with a whisper of "Gotcha," and moved toward the door, not quite pressed against the house. It rattled the knob, and there were a number of metallic scratching noises. 

A moment after, the door opened and the figures vanished inside. A light flicked on, then off again, as if they had been fighting over the switch. The front door was yanked shut. For a long while, nothing could be heard. 

Then, barely visible through the thick curtains, a faint green glow. It flickered. A thoughtful observer would have noticed it was the colour of phosphorescent paint, or those night-sky-on-your-ceiling stickers sold to science-minded children in the hopes they will put up with their ceiling being shaped nothing like a planetarium. They might have wondered why it was phosphorescing now, when it had apparently been hidden from the light before. They would have found the whole thing off-putting. In short order, in fact, they would have found have themself walking away, unable to articulate quite why. 

Arthur, had he been observing, would have had a good laugh. 

When, after about fifteen minutes, the greenish glow turned white, then blue, then flickered out like a dying candle, he would have made a disparaging comment about _dilettantes_. 

As it was, two figures in rain parkas slipped out of the front door soon afterwards. "That wasn't too bad," one said quietly. "Damn him for reinventing the wheel all the time, though." 

The other yawned, and bent down to move the rocks aside again. 

\--

Murray came storming up to the adit on Sunday afternoon, eyebrows knit in a murderous glare. His bagpipes were cradled in one arm. He slammed his fist against the door as if he were trying to knock it loose from its frame. After a dozen blows got no result, he switched to shouting. "Art! Answer your damn door, or I'll stand here playing Greensleeves until you come out!"

There was no answer, so he pulled the bagpipes into place, took a deep breath, and began.

_Greensleeves_ resonated very oddly, down here. He would have expected echoes; instead the noise seemed to sink into the walls. He hoped it was getting through and into Arthur's head. It was Arthur's least favourite song. He had once thrown Ceri's harp across the room to stop her playing it, and if it hadn't landed safely she might have made the replacement from his bones. As it was they hadn't spoken for three months. 

Murray had no concern that something dreadful would happen to his bagpipes. Arthur had mellowed, and he intended to stop as soon as the door was opened.

Five minutes later, he was starting to wonder where Arthur had gained so much patience. 

Ten minutes later a flickering light appeared, to his surprise, on the other end of the tunnel. Then Arthur's voice called out, very aggrieved, "Murray, I know that's you. You could have gone to the one with the mattress if you felt like sparing your neighbour."

Oh. That explained it. Murray lifted his elbow. "I wanted to talk to you!"

The flickering light came closer, and revealed itself to be Arthur, waving an electric torch. It was a matter of yards, and really he should have been able to navigate it in darkness, but Arthur was the sort of man who would carry a torch regardless, just in ;:case. "Again?"

"Yes! It stopped working!"

Arthur blinked. The way the torch lit up his face from below should have been ominous and unearthly, but mostly managed to be comical. "I do better work than _that_ , and no one else has asked me. Have you asked Ceridwen?"

"What?"

"Our sister," Arthur said with an air of fraying patience, and turned to unlock the door. "Someone else might have hired her. She knows my style enough to muck about without hurting herself. Spiting a relative is just the sort of thing she'd do, too, the little -" He paused. "Unless Tewdwr did it. They conspire. Look, come in and tell me all about it."

\--

Murray was a morning person of the most obnoxious sort, the kind who is also a late-night person. He would drink at the Angel until midnight, rise at six, have a cup of tea, and be down at the garage by half-past, just in case any farmers noticed their truck was making funny noises on the way to market. Or something like that; Mari was never up before eight, and had no personal experience of his early-morning customers, or indeed whether they existed. She suspected they did not. 

She was, however, still surprised when she turned up at nine and Murray, grinning, congratulated her on being the first. "First what?" she had to ask.

"First customer on my brand-new accounting system! Come in, take a look, we'll get all your information put in." And, still beaming, he beckoned her into the office.   
"  
His desk, formerly the home of piles of newspapers and ledgers and rags and a few forgotten mugs of tea, was bare enough now to see its original hideous green top. It had been moved to sit against the far wall. Proudly set on it, dead centre, were what looked like a small beige television sitting on a beige base, a flattened beige typewriter, and a large beige box with green-and-white-striped paper sticking out the top. It took Mari a few seconds to work out what she was looking at. "Oh," she offered. Then, "Very nice."

"State-of-the-art!"

The television - no, the monitor, it was called a monitor - was showing nothing but a small jumble of pale letters, followed by an angle. Murray leaned over the typewriter and began tapping on it one-fingered. He was moving fast, but he must have gotten in some practice over the weekend. A jumble of letters and numbers flashed onto the monitor; her name appeared, and the number off her car's plate, to Mari's surprise, as she did not bring it to the garage so often she would have expected him to memorise it. He was explaining as he went. This was something called a Lotus, and he was saving the information on the floppy disk - he pulled another from the drawer to illustrate - which was in that little slot in the base, and when he had more customers he could keep track of what had been done and when and who owed him money and who was due for an oil change. He seemed very proud of all this. 

"It must have been very expensive," she couldn't help but say. It seemed rather a lot to replace the grease-stained notebooks he had always kept, and the image of the expensive beige machinery clogging up with grease sprung into her head. Computers had moving parts, didn't they? Fans, and that floppy disk had something in the middle that spun.

"Aye. But I expect to make it back."

"In convenience?"

"In money." He beamed. "I can't be the only one in town who could use a computer to work out how much people owe them, or what they owe the Revenue, or things like that - they'd have to come down here and type it all in, but that's no slower than adding it all up by hand. Want to keep track of how much beer you sell by day?"

"I don't actually run the Angel, I can't decide things like that." It was an appealing idea - not very useful, they were a cash business and there was only so much scope for forecasting inventory needs - but appealing, in a futuristic way. Murray must have been saving up; there wasn't even a computer at the school yet or Cadoc would have - hmm. "Something else you might do," she said. "Let students use it."

"To do what? They don't pay taxes." His eyebrows were raised, though, interest clear on his face.

"Whatever they want. People can write their own - computer programs? That's the right word, isn't it?"

"Aye." He looked thoughtful. "Can't charge them much, though, has to be pocket-money."

\--

Francis appeared at the cafe for a late lunch, too hungry to bother with combing his hair, and proceeded to flirt outrageously with Eluned until she blushed and burst out laughing. She was quiet and nervous and he took it as a small triumph to make her laugh - either at his jokes or his deliberately terrible French accent, he was not sure which and disinclined to care.

At the next table, Murray's sister was finishing a plate of fish and chips. As soon as Eluned walked back into the kitchen, she leaned over and waved a chip at him, half-smiling. "Francis."

"Ceri," he answered, a little hesitantly. "Or would you prefer Miss Bryn?"

"From you, Ceri is fine." Her smile broadened; it looked a little twisted. "You're my little brother's best friend, it would be strange to stand on ceremony."

There were two distracting idioms in that sentence; _stand on ceremony_ was not difficult, but _little brother_ was absurd when referring to a man who stood six-foot-four, especially from a woman who would have to stand on tiptoe to look over his shoulder. It took Francis a moment to notice the true contradiction. "Best friend? Surely not; we've only known each other   
a few months."

"He says you're a good listener." She set down the chip. "Are you doing anything Friday night? 

"I had expected to spend it with him at the Angel." He shrugged.

"Change your expectations. You're coming to my place for supper. So is Murray. Tell him it's at six."

Francis contemplated taking offence at the assumption he would let his plans be changed so easily. Then he abandoned it; what were the odds she would be moved by it? More likely Murray would go alone and be upset Francis had declined. "Of course."

\--

Arthur took an inordinately long time with Mr. Roberts's flowerbeds rather than go home and come back, and when he could not stretch the excuse far enough, letting himself into Mari's house for a cup of tea - she would, he knew, not begrudge it, while Murray would be likely to add the tea, milk, and sugar to the unpaid rent he refused to drop the issue of, that being the other reason Arthur had moved across town. Whatever Ceridwen's failings as an elder sister, at least she considered nagging beneath her dignity and had never once attempted to use _'I used to change your nappies'_ as a trump card in a fight.

He scribbled a note on her shopping list so she wouldn't suspect fairies, considered touching up the anti-spoiler on her refrigerator but decided to save his energy, and somewhat guiltily, stuffed two biscuits in his coat pocket. Then he left to sit on Murray's porch. His timing was perfect; his brother appeared at the corner not a minute later. 

They were halfway through the inevitable pleasantries when the boisterous notes of La Marseillaise began.

"I think we can rule out our sister," he told Murray, hoping he could be heard through the hands clapped over Murray's ears. "She would have done something subtle."

"Mr. Price?"

"Has to be, doesn't it? That or an _out-of-towner_." His voice dripped contempt. "I should - I should boycott his pub, is what I should do, that might get his attention."

"I should've kept asking our sister for lessons," Murray muttered. "Can you do anything from this side of the wall?"

"I could put it back up, but what would you bet he'd just sneak in and take it down? And it wouldn't do so well on this side." Arthur cast a critical look at the wall. Murray had old-fashioned flowery wallpaper he had never bothered to replace, and he'd hung up all sorts of random bits of dried vegetation, and there was nothing in the wall, to his extra senses, but a faint and dying afterglow. He took a deep breath. "I can do something harder to knock down, but it will take until Wednesday at least."

"Bloody hell," Murray said quietly. "No other ideas?"

"Only one."

"Which would be?"

"Give up bagpipes and apologise."

Murray bristled like an angry hedgehog, shoulders raised and teeth bared. He had a first-class glare. He turned it on Arthur now. "For what? I've done no wrong."

His brother sighed, and covered his eyes with one hand. "Somehow I knew you'd say that."

\--

On Tuesday, Anthony and Ercwlff decamped to the Angel to impress Anthony's grandfather with their willingness to pay cash. Tewdwr Price was, of course, at the Green Man; he did not believe in weekends. Cadoc had gone into town to visit his father. That left Mari, Francis, and Murray. Mari turned up at Francis's house in time for an excellent supper of bouef bourguignon - but without wine, for as Francis said with a smile, there would be sufficient alcohol later.

He had acquired a road map of Scotland, and set it out on his living-room table with the acquisitions from his recent trip to Edinburgh placed in the approximate location of their distilleries. He waved a hand at it and smiled. "How shall we begin, madame?"

Mari squinted, then declared, "Clockwise from John o'Groats."

They were in Aberdeen when the bagpipes started. 

Mari took several deep breaths - the noise was much louder here than in her own house, but most of the annoyance lay in repetition, not volume alone - and suggested they carry on regardless. Francis was willing enough. After all, this was that rare situation where bagpipes provided the appropriate ambiance. But he took more than the required splash, for taste-testing, of the next two distilleries, and in the middle of the third he set his glass down and declared, "I will have _vengeance._ A moment, Mari." 

In a moment he returned, brandishing the accordion. Mari realised she had never seen it in person before, only heard it. It was larger than she had expected, and the various brass fittings were polished to a high gleam. He gave a manic grin, and pulled the bellows wide. Mari closed her eyes and reminded herself that it would be rude to run away screaming.

He started with La Mareseillaise. The thing was, he kept tempo. Perhaps it was impossible to simply tune out the strains of _Land Of My Fathers_ through the wall, or perhaps he was making some half-hearted attempt at harmony. Either way, the result was like the world's least euphonious marching band. It was - impressive, Mari could grant. Loud, certainly, and if she were given to exaggeration she might have called it menacing. She stood up carefully, and braced herself on the back of a wooden chair. Francis, eyes shut, didn't notice. 

Mari took a deep breath. She shifted her grip on the chair, and hefted it. She checked the wall for breakable pictures. She picked up the chair, slammed it into the wall as hard as she could, and yelled, " _Fucking well stop it!_ "

They stopped. 

Francis was still, eyes wide and hands frozen. From the other side of the wall there was silence. Then, in a meek voice that barely nade it through the wall, Murray called out, "Sorry."

"You'd better be! Do you two _wankers_ know how many _headaches_ you've been giving us?" She couldn't have stopped herself if she wanted to; the words burst forth like pus from a lanced boil. "This isn't music! It's a giant pissing match! And I am going home and if I hear one more note from either of you I am coming and getting your bloody bagpipes and your damned accordion and _setting them on fire_!" 

Francis, very carefully, set his accordion down. "I do apologise," he whispered. 

"Don't."

She slammed the door on the way out. It felt very good.

\--

Neither Francis nor Murray appeared in the Angel for the next two nights. Neither did Cadoc, Ercwlff, or Anthony. Rhys Evans turned up after choir practice, though, and sipped his gin-and-tonic with the air of a man debating whether mornings were really worth getting up for. 

When he ordered another Mari gave in and asked if he'd seen Francis and Murray. He had, but he hadn't seen them speak to each other.

\--

Supper, Francis concluded somewhere in the middle of Friday, would be a disaster. He resolved to call Murray's sister and inform her of his inability to attend due to sudden illness, but was thwarted by the unfortunate detail that he did not know her phone number.

The arrival by the afternoon post of a manila envelope, stuffed with photocopies his research assistant had promised a week ago, did nothing to improve his mood.

Well, at least he could dress the part of a polite guest. He determinedly combed his hair, shined his shoes, dithered between the bluesuit and the grey for ten minutes before finally pairing the grey with a blue shirt and navy-blue tie, and combed his hair again. Then he took the tie off. Then put it back on. Then took it off, and went downstairs and made a gin-and-tonic in an attempt to stop dithering.

By the time he arrived at Ceri's house on the other side of town - or, properly speaking, out of town altogether - his shoes were covered in dust and the gin-and-tonic had left him queasy without providing any actual _courage_. He briefly considered ignominious retreat, but that would mean making his own dinner, and besides, his feet hurt. He steeled himself and knocked.

Ceri opened it so quickly he wondered if she had been standing behind the door. He seemed to have overshot the formality of the occasion, even absent the tie; Ceri was in a green velvet gown that would have been elegant, had it not been paired with an oatmeal cardigan and duck boots. She greeted him warmly, accepted his proffered bottle of whiskey with apparent delight, and ushered him into her parlour to wait while she finished cooking.

Francis settled onto the sofa. The room smelled faintly of cigarettes, and was stuffed with books and knicknacks. The end table held various rocks, a half-knitted scarf, and a silver picture frame. He picked it up. He would have thought the couple were Ceri and Arthur, save that they looked the same age, and the man had brown hair and - even less likely for Arthur - a broad smile. The woman looked as if her mind was somewhere else. It was a casual shot; they were outlined against a cloud-streaked sky.

"Cute, isn't it?"

Francis looked over in surprise; he had not noticed Ceri sitting down.

"I took that," she informed him. "Brecon Beacons, nineteen sixty-four. Right before they broke up again and Mother dragged me off to Norwich."

"Morwen mentioned that." He set the frame down and tried for a friendly smile. "I take it you didn't like Norwich?"

Ceri burst out in slightly bitter laughter. 

Francis made sympathetic noises. When her laughter subsided Ceri patted him on the shoulder. "Could you watch the mutton? I have to go drag Arthur out of his sulk."

_Sulk_ sounded familiar, but Francis couldn't quite place it. Perhaps it was a dialect term for the cowshed Murray kept insinuating his brother lived in. He agreed, and fled to the kitchen. 

Three minutes later there was a bang on the kitchen door. Francis set down the corkscrew and was already opening the door before he realised it was almost certainly Murray. 

It was Murray.

He forced a smile. Murray regarded him like a little lump of paper he'd found in the pocket of some jeans that had been in the wash. Then he smirked. "Francis! Ceri got you doing her cooking now?"

"She's gone to get Arthur. Come in, have some wine, it has not had time to breathe but I doubt time to breathe would improve it." He started to throw open cabinets.

Murray's hand closed gently over his - a big hand, with lots of calluses, and damn him for noticing. "What're you looking for?"

"Wine glasses."

"None left, they're all smashed. Mugs are over the sink. Don't touch the one with the dragon, nothing but Darjeeling goes in that one."

They settled for souvenirs of Newcastle and Cork, handpainted roses, and a World's Greatest Dad, and Francis opened a second bottle to breathe in the faint hope it would help the taste and the certainty they would need it.

\--

Arthur wore a freshly-ironed white shirt and looked like a man already on his third drink. As soon as the mutton was carved he announced, "I have something to say to all of you. But especially Ceri." 

Well. At least, it seemed, the lingering tension between Francis and Murray would not be the most dreadful thing at the table. Francis took a gulp of inferior wine from his Souvenir of Cork. Nobody else spoke.

Arthur took a deep breath, and continued: "I've taken a job in London, it starts in two weeks, and I will probably never come back to this miserable little excuse for a village, so get your goodbyes in while you can."

Oh dear. 

Murray slammed a hand flat on the table. It rattled the plates. "You bloody _imbecile_. Clive Sinjon, is it?"

"Naturally. Who else would hire me?"

"That's not the point! The thing is -" What the thing was they never learned, because Ceri began to growl, low in her throat. They all looked at her in shock. 

"Don't you _dare_." It was a low noise, something animal.

Arthur jerked upright. "And how do you propose to stop me?"

"What? _I forbid it._ "

"You're not my mother. And if you hadn't noticed, I'm a grown man."

Ceri hissed like a slashed tyre. Then she took her rose-painted mug of wine and downed it in a gulp.

The rest of dinner was taken up with a scowling argument between Arthur and Murray. Ceri drank. Arthur drank, and waved bits of mutton around like bayonets. Francis kept everyone's mugs full. By the time Arthur stormed out they were on the third bottle.

\--

Mari was astonished to see Arthur stalk into the Angel for the first time in years, and could not stop herself from asking why. "Because Tewdwr Price would let me sleep in the gutter," he said, which was enough for her to conclude he got beer on the house and nothing stronger. "Mari, I'm sorry, I'll explain in the morning if you let me spend the night on your floor."

At one in the morning they staggered out together, Arthur leaning on her for support. Two blocks away the duet of accordion and bagpipes could already be heard.

Why weren't they in _bed_?

"New plan," she told Arthur. "Back to yours."

He threw up in the ditch on the way, and she had to fish out his keys. But indoors he submitted meekly enough to being stripped and wrapped in a spare blanket and left in the bathtub, and his bed was warm and comfortable, once she evicted the - things - from beneath the pillow.

\--

Ceri turned up at nine in the morning, with a steaming tankard that claimed to be Ein Souvenir Von München and an expression Mari had never seen on her face before: contrite. "Here," she said, and pressed it into Mari's hands. "Arthur made an arse of himself at the Angel after that scene at supper, I'm guessing?"

"He very quietly and politely drank himself into a stupor."

"Sure and he'll be needing that, then." She ran a hand through her hair. It looked like a dark thornbush, and her eyes were shadowed. "Tell him -"

"What?"

"Tell him I - spoke in haste. But I do feel responsible for him."

\--

Ercwlff and Anthony turned up at Cadoc's door, with unerring instinct, just in time for lunch. He could not quite muster the rudeness required to turn them away. Anthony, as was his habit, rambled at high speed and great length, with a beaming smile. Ercwlff, as was his habit, stared into space and made occasional non sequiters.

They were, Cadoc had to admit to himself, not uncongenial dining companions. They kept the mood light. And not once did they complain about his toast being too bland. 

He was contemplating making don't-let-me-keep-you noises when Mari turned up at the back door. Cadoc let her in. Her hair, he was amazed to see, was done up in two tight braids against her skull, and she was wearing a man's white shirt buttoned up to the neck; the combined effect was of military severity. "Oh good," she said when she saw Ercwlff and Anthony, "you're here, I can talk to you all at once."

They exchanged confused looks as she slid out a chair and folded her hands. "About what?" Anthony ventured. 

"Murray and Francis." She casually appropriated Anthony's tea mug. "Just how late were they playing last night? I only know it lasted until one; I spent the night at Arthur's." That explained the shirt, then.

Anthony and Ercwlff exchanged looks, then Anthony sighed. "We don't know. We left at eleven."

"Stayed with my mum," Ercwlff muttered.

Cadoc felt he should contribute. He cleared his throat. "I went to bed at midnight. The noise was not intolerable, with earplugs."

There was silence.

"Right," Mari said eventually. "I think the time for gentle suggestions has passed. Here's what will happen. Tomorrow morning, at nine, we will have a council of war. At the Saracen's Head. We are going into town so nobody will overhear us and warn them, I will drive anyone who turns up at my house by eight-thirty, and Cadoc, you will go to the Green Man tonight and convince Tewdwr Price to come along. Understood?"

"Ah." Cadoc cleared his throat. "Nine? The service won't be -"

"Skip church," Mari told him flatly. "God will understand."

It was true Cadoc was the only one here who made a serious effort to be there every Sunday - Murray did as well, but then, he was in the choir - but it was also true that Cadoc had never won an argument with Mari. He sighed. "I'll tell Mr. Price."

\--

The house next to Murray's was occupied, as it had been for thirty-six years, by Mr. Roberts. For the first thirty of those it has also been occupied by his wife, until her abrupt death from a stroke. At intervals it had hosted his six grown children, or various of his ten grandchildren, but never longer than a week: the couple believed in leaving the nest permanently, and had bought the place because it was tiny and easy to clean. Mr. Roberts had every intention of dying there, and still did his own cleaning.

Gardening, however, defeated his aching bones. Thus his arrangement with Arthur, which now was coming to its end.

_Ask Ercwlff,_ Arthur scribbled on the yellow pad. Mr. Roberts could read lips, with some difficulty, but Arthur always felt so awkward making him try. _No work ethic, but likes plants & can follow instructions. I'll leave inst. V detailed._

"I'm sure that will be a great help." 

He sounded quite sincere. Arthur smiled reassuringly. _If he says no,_ he refrained for reasons of space from adding 'ungrateful sod', _ask Cadoc, he'll know someone who wants pocket-money._

"Well, of course." Mr. Roberts sighed. "But they won't have your touch. What's taking you off to London in such a hurry?"

Arthur decided he'd better not have heard that. _I'll come back Monday noon & finish up,_ he wrote, and waved the secateurs. 

He would miss Mr. Roberts, in a funny way. More, he would miss the garden; he'd taken a free hand and it was as neat as a hedge-maze and gorgeous from the kitchen window. He wouldn't have a garden in London. That was the one thought that gave him pause. 

Well, properly speaking, he didn't have one now. He had Ceri's, and she had yet to be convinced that, even   
in Wales, it was occasionally necessary to water plants. Arthur kept trying. He'd given up on getting her to let him plant anything but herbs. 

"Well, I hope it all works out for you," Mr. Roberts stubbornly continued. "You're a nice young man, you deserve it."

He decided not to have heard that either, to keep himself from bursting out laughing. _Nice_ he'd never even pretended to. 

\--

Ercwlff and Anthony, as she had expected, turned up on Mari's doorstep at quarter-to-nine, unshaven and rumpled. She greeted them with appropriate tetchiness. Cadoc had left already, Arthur and Tewdwr Price in his backseat, deep in a discussion of professional matters. By the time they got into town she was grateful she'd had a fortifying cup of tea as soon as she got up.

The Saracen's Head was not a pub, but a greasy spoon. By the time they arrived, Cadoc had arranged to push two tables together, Arthur was on his second cup of tea, and - to Mari's astonishment - Arthur's sister sat beside him, serenely adding lemon. Mari yanked out the opposite chair and jabbed a finger in the air. "You! How did you get here? Why are you even here? You weren't invited!" Which was perhaps not the smartest thing in the world to say to Ceridwen, and she realised it with a blush once the words left her mouth. Cadoc absently passed her a menu. She noticed, with the sudden focus on anything else that comes with acute attacks of embarrassment, that it was a new menu, done up on a dot-matrix printer. Murray had been explaining about those.

"By occult and uncanny means, naturally," Ceri answered, unperturbed. "Arthur thought I might help. Relax, I'm on your side."

"Fine. Just as long as you're not on Murray's."

"You know, if he hadn't started playing bagpipes I might never have made him get his own place?"

There was a brief interruption while they all ordered, and everyone got tea, and Arthur and Cadoc began an argument over how much sugar made it _builder's_ and how much _syrup_. Mari banged her mug with a spoon to interrupt. Once the noise died down she cleared her throat. "Gentlemen - and lady - this is a council of war. We are gathered here in the common cause of freeing our fair village of Llangareg from the scourge of unwarranted music. The time for gentle measures has passed. Are we all agreed on that?"

After a moment, all five neighbour raised their hands. Arthur raised both, although he didn't really have standing. 

"Right. We've asked them to stop, we've screamed at them, we've gotten ... professional help. It's time to resort to force."

Cadoc cleared his throat. "I think we should give them one last chance."

"I think they've had lots of chances," Anthony said, with a friendly smile.

"Nonetheless - we've all been acting independently. Perhaps if we made it clear we're acting as a group?" 

Tewdwr shrugged. "It might work. It can't hurt. What are you thinking of ,saying?" 

Cadoc was warming to his topic. "Ask them to turn over their instruments," he said, and oh, that suggestion could only have come from a schoolteacher. "If they agree, in writing, to - let's say, play no more than two hours a week on a prearranged schedule, they get them back in July." Tewdwr looked thoughtful. Arthur looked like he was smothering a laughing fit.

Time to forestall argument. "Fair enough; I'll let you propose it to them. And if they don't agree, what do we do?"

They all considered this. 

"Confiscate their instruments," suggested Anthony. "And burn them."

Tewdwr hmmed. "I'd rather not risk getting arrested."

"Do they have to know it was us?"

"If Cadoc makes his threat? We're the obvious suspects, I'm afraid."

"Curse their instruments," offered Ercwlff, who was looking almost human by now, and clutching his tea protectively. 

Arthur shook his head. "Same problem, shorter suspect list."

And impossible to prove in court, but that would just inspire Murray, at least, to creative heights of vengeance. He wasn't even a gifted amateur like Tewdwr. The talent that h'is sister had turned into a reputation as the best in the valleys, he had ignored almost completely in favour of mucking about with cars. But that _almost_ could under the right circumstances be hideously relevant, and the other thing people should really have remembered about the Haunted Morris Minor was that Murray had both fixed it and made Arthur regret it. No, if they wanted to go that way, they'd need both great creativity and Ceri.

"Cadoc," Arthur said abruptly, "I know you looked it up and we don't have a noise ordinance. Do you suppose Murray has ever looked it up?"

"Well ... it does seem unlikely."

"D'you think they'd believe you? If you said there was?"

Cadoc frowned into his tea. "Possibly," he said slowly, "but he might also wonder why no one had brought it up before."

"And look it up himself, just to be contrary. Right. Bugger."

"I think we can rule out anything involving simple subterfuge," Tewdwr said, looking apologetic. "Murray would see through it once he'd had a chance to think."

Ercwlff had confiscated the bowl of sugar cubes, and was carefully arranging them into a square atop his napkin. "Right," he muttered. "Only _complicated_ subterfuge."

Anthony started to laugh, but Mari held up a hand. "No, he has a point. Is there anything we could do that wouldn't be traced back?"

"Only curse the accordion?" Tewdwr asked, biting his lip. "Francis wouldn't know a curse, and without the challenge Murray might back down."

Arthur looked wistful, but frowned. "It wouldn't really be fair."

Which was surprisingly scrupulous of him, but Mari was inclined to agree. If anything Murray could be considered the aggressor in this little drama. Francis had only taken up the accordion for vengeance, and in all other ways he'd been an excellent neighbour. 

Which was not, of course, to say she would actually protest if someone punched him in the nose, say. He'd assaulted their eardrums just as thoroughly. 

Anthony had apparently been thinking along similar lines, because he set his tea mug down with a thump. "I don't care if he figures out it was us. He'll work that out regardless, and can he really do anything worse than just _keep playing bagpipes?_ What do we have to lose? Let's just set the damned things on fire."

Ceri coughed. "I will not," she informed him coldly, "be a party to the wanton destruction of beautiful instruments that might produce beautiful music, in different hands."

"Fine. Can we set Murray and Francis on fire?"

"No, no, what we really want," Mari frantically interrupted, and then paused dramatically while she tried to think of something safe for them to really want. Fairness, vengeance, let them know - ahah. "Is to give them a taste of their own medicine," she finished triumphantly. 

Tewdwr blinked, then smiled. "I have a polka record."

"I _used_ to have an album of children's carols, but Ercwlff broke it." Anthony snorted and leaned back in his chair. "Does anyone have an airhorn?"

Headshakes all around, and a general pause for refilling of tea. 

Anthony had thought of something better. "Art, that thing you did to the wall. Could you do it all around both their houses?"

"Not easily," he said wistfully, "not and let them keep using their doors."

Mari frowned. "Maybe if it were just for a night? Give them a chance to get thoroughly sick of their own noise."

"Didn't help Friday," Ercwlff muttered. The sugar cubes had formed pillars by now. 

Art nodded. "Pick the wrong night, they'd go to bed and not even notice."

"So don't do it at home. Lock them in, oh, Arthur's workshop." Tewdwr looked downright cheerful about this prospect.

"You are _not_ letting that pair of twats loose in _my workshop._ "

It was ... not the worst idea. Throw the two of them together with their instruments, nothing to do but annoy each other at close quarters ... Maybe they'd learn to play in harmony, which Mari rather thought she could live with. They got along just fine in other ways, after all. "We have three adits," she reminded the table. "Use the one with the mattress in?"

Ercwlff shook his head. "Doesn't have a door."

"I could probably arrange to keep them from getting out regardless." Arthur smirked gently. 

"It's June, someone might be using it," Anthony pointed out. 

Mari shrugged. "So, we have _three_ adits. Use the unoccupied one, it's close enough. How do we get them there?" It was surprisingly sensible, really. Vengeance felt good. And if she stopped to wait for the second sensible idea they'd be there until tea.

Tewdwr offered, "It, ah, might be better if Arthur got them to the adit and I kept them there. Murray's not as familiar with my work."

"But you're better with psychological things," Ceri said, and patted his hand. "You bring them there, and I'll help Arthur keep them there. Murray's never gotten my weft loose yet."

The rest was detail, and went easily. Partway through the discussion their breakfasts arrived, carried by a big man who looked quite Saracen himself, and left Mari with distracting thoughts of oil wrestling. She devoured the first sausage in three bites, but when she reached for her napkin it was gone. Ercwlff had appropriated it to fold into the roof for what looked like a pseudo-Classical sugar folly. He'd only managed six pillars, but even that was impressive, given how little material he had.

\--

On Monday afternoon, Cadoc dithered for most of an hour before he could bring himself to walk to the garage.Murray was still there; he was in his office with Huw Price, making expansive hand gestures while the boy ignored him in favour of poking the keyboard on Murray's computer. Cadoc cleared his throat.

"- and if the disk - oh, hello, Cadoc." Murray beamed at him. "Back so soon? Don't tell me the dripping started again." 

"Er, no. It's about something else." He attempted to signal by frantic eye movement that perhaps it was something they shouldn't discuss in front of Huw. 

"Tires? Never too soon, you know, yours were looking a little bald -"

"Not about the car." Cadoc gave up. "Er, could we step outside?"

"Alright. Huw, don't break anything, you hear?" Murray beamed. The boy nodded and didn't look up.

Outside Cadoc took a very deep breath. He ran a nervous hand over his hair, and tried to look official. "I've come on behalf of our neighbour," he said. "It's about, er, the bagpipes. They're very - annoyed. You've been playing a lot more, and louder, ever since Francis turned up. And, well, none of us minded when it was just on Saturdays," he lied, "but it's gotten quite excessive. So I've been chosen as a representative. To ask if you'd hand over the bagpipes temporarily, for me to keep, if Francis agrees to hand over his accordion."

Murray laughed. It was a loud, booming laugh, full of cheer, and it went on for so long Cadoc began to wilt under the sheer force of its heartiness. "I take it that's a no?"

"Mate, if they sent you to get the bagpipes off me they were having you on. Was it Anthony? I bet it was. Go tell him I still think the Clio tain't worth as much as its petrol."

\--

Francis was more polite, of course, but what the gentle deflections and offers of more wine and friendly smile came down to was: are you out of your mind? Cadoc went home in a bitter cloud of resentment.

Half an hour later the gentle strains of accordion began to waft through the air. Cadoc put on his ear protectors and made a soothing cup of tea. It was on, then. At least he'd made a good-faith effort.

\--

Arthur's workshop was cold. His sister had turned up in a cardigan and wool scarf, and proceeded to complain in unaccustomed fashion as she tossed half his things out the door. "If you don't want to be here, _leave,_ he snapped, after the third book she tossed aside.

Ceri took a deep breath. "I do not want to be _helping you pack_ , but it's my job, isn't it?"

"And why is that?"

"We're family."

"Don't remind me."

"You don't have to do this, Art. You could stay in Llangerreg."

Arthur scowled, and folded his arms. "This town isn't big enough for both of us. I'm tired of living off your leftovers, Ceri."

Ceri glared back. "So you're giving up on the traditions of our family, the work that no one else can do, and you're off to seek your fortune in the big city?"

"I'm off to seek Clive Sinjon's fortune and I give it ten years." Arthur sat down heavily on the overstuffed ottoman; it gave a non-intimidating creak. "Times change."

"You say that like it's a good thing."

"Well, if you weren't so bloody old-fashioned - "

Ceri, damn her, actually managed to make the thump when she dropped the crate sound like a threat. But what she said was, "Do you want me to come with you?"

Arthur took three tries to formulate a response, and it was "What?"

"Come with you. To London. We could set up together, London's underserved, I daresay we could pass for exotic and foreign if you'd drop the bloody Received Pronunciation, you're only half English and it's not, I assure you, the _important_ half. In any other town you'd be the best by miles. If you advertised a bit more there'd be no question of leftovers. It's a damn shame, is all."

"And you're the best! In Glamorgan at minimum! Quite possibly in the country! And now you're proposing to go running out on your customers for _London_?"

"We're family."

He took a few deep breaths. "I'm going alone. If you want family you'll have to go have children like anyone else." 

Ceri was silent for a long time. Then she quietly answered, "Fine. Subject closed. When do you want to set things up at the other adit?" 

"Wednesday night's good enough."

"Not tonight?"

"Can't. Having supper with Mari."

\--

Mari couldn't manage a fatted calf, but she prepared a more-or-less competent leg of lamb, and Arthur was duly appreciative. He settled for two glasses of wine, she was pleased to note. He beamed. She told him she would miss him. 

"Flee the country," he suggested amiably. "We'll meet in Hereford."

"When I have an excuse to go all the way to London?" Mari smiled at his startled look, and tapped his nose. "You can show me around, hmm?"

That got an answering smile out of Arthur, at least. At least he remembered he had friends, however badly things went with his family. Llangarreg had always been quite big enough for Mari, but she was looking forward to reading Arthur's letters.

\--


	5. Chapter 5

Murray and Francis, as had become their habit, walked back together from choir practice. They had made it as far as Murray's door when a shape rose from the gloom and intoned, "Look over here, please."

"Mr. Price?" Murray blinked, and looked. "Shouldn't you be at the Green Man?"

"Not right now. Could you get your bagpipes? And you, Francis, go get your accordion? I'll just wait here." Mr. Price had a friendly, warm smile, and of course they didn't want to disappoint a neighbour. This was all perfectly reasonable.

In short order they were following him up the winding trail into the hills, where the mine had been. "Good place for a concert," Francis said as they walked. "It looks like you'd get echoes off the hills."

"Oh, you should try the adit if you want echoes!" Murray companionably clapped him on the shoulder.

Tewdwr Price didn't say anything. His smile was starting to look strained.

By the time they arrived at the adit Francis was breathing too hard to speak. Tewdwr Price set a hand on each of their shoulders. "I would really appreciate if you would go in there now," he said earnestly. "Just keep walking back, you'll know where to stop."

"Oh, sure." Murray took Francis's hand and tugged it sharply. "C'mon, you can't be tired already."

"I'm afraid so, and these are - " he paused to gasp - "not suitable hiking shoes. Go slowly, if you please?"

"Fine, fine," Murray grumbled, and slung an arm over his shoulders. Tewdwr Price slumped, breathing heavily, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Murray wondered why.

The adit was cool - of course it was, this was the one that was always cold. They almost stumbled in the darkness, but Murray managed to grab Francis's elbow before he could stumble. "Careful there," he said.

"Yes, careful," floated out of the darkness. It sounded like Arthur's voice. "Don't want to fall, you might crush your accordion."

"Arthur?" Francis sounded about as confused as Murray felt.

The voice that answered wasn't Arthur, but Anthony. "Your neighbours are all rather upset with the both of you," it began, sounding quite cheerful. "This is a lesson!"

"We represent an agreement between everyone on the row but you." Arthur just seemed tired. Murray wanted to interrupt, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to move. "Cadoc insisted on offering you a last chance, you didn't take it, we consider drastic action justified."

"So you get to entertain each other! Have fun, nobody else can hear you!"

"We'll be back to let you out in the morning." 

Anthony started to laugh. The sound retreated up the adit, until it suddenly, quite abruptly, cut off.

\--

It simply hadn't occurred to Francis _not_ to do as Mr. Price said, until the noise cut off. At that moment, he was stricken with a sudden sense of the absurdity of the situation. He should be at home, or in Murray's kitchen enjoying a late-night drink, not standing in the dark in an abandoned mine. Accordingly, he took ten steps in the direction of the exit. Ten was all he managed, before a sense of sudden horror overtook him and he lept back, screaming.

 

"Francis? Francis!" Murray grabbed him by the shoulders. "Are you alright? What is it?"

It took a few moments to recover his breath, and his grasp of English. "I do not know."

Murray was quiet. Then - "Right. Hold this, don't drop it," he said, and shoved something into Francis's arms. Fabric, protruding wood - oh. The bagpipes. Francis cradled them carefully, trying to hold back a hysterical laugh, and listened to the sound of Murray's boots. Eight steps. A strangled gasp. Six hasty steps back, and a thump. "Bloody hell."

"You felt it also?" 

"Those - " Murray paused. "What's the worst name you can call someone in French? _Bastard_ doesn't cover it. Not close. I can't believe they got Mr. Price in on this."

"Murray. _What is going on?_ "

"We're trapped. They put up a panic ward. Anyone who tries to walk through gets the shakes too bad to keep going," he helpfully added, as if it were possible. 

As if any of this were possible. Francis wondered if this was the point where the nice men in clean white coats showed up. "And how did they do that?"

"'San easy spell. I could do it myself, if I ever bothered. Except mine you could maybe get through with a good reason and a run-up, and Art's you'd need to, say, be on fire. I will grant the little git's a good witch. Sit down, we might be here a while."

Francis sat down, carefully and in stages, so as not to damage their instruments. Crouching, then to his knees, then, carefully, leaning onto one hip to swing his legs forward. The floor of the adit was cold and grated on his bones, but the concentration involved kept him from shaking. "Forgive me, my English is not perfect," he managed. "It sounded like you said _witch_ , and I am not sure what you meant." He wasn't sure of 'spell' or 'ward' either, but let that wait.

"Aye. Witch. Person who does magic." There was a thump - Murray must have sat down as well - and then a tentative touch on his shoulder. "Have you never met a witch before?"

"No! Because there is _no such thing as magic!_ " Alright, perhaps he was allowed some hysteria.

"Well, if there's no such thing as magic you can walk right home. Feel up to it?" Murray, damn him, sounded downright cheerful.

He shook his head, then remembered it was dark and forced himself to say, "No."

"Then we may as well wait. Maybe some music to pass the time?"

" _No!_ "

\--

It was, maybe, half an hour later. Francis had set the instruments aside, and was leaning on Murray's shoulder and trying not to let his teeth chatter. "And you are not a - witch?"

"Nah. Never had time. M'father tried to teach me, but I was pants at it. Morwen used to make fun of me, you know? Called me the family dud."

"How impolite."

"True, though. I mean, compared to Ceri - she's the real prodigy, you know? Good enough to make a living at it."

Francis huffed a laugh, and used it to snuggle closer. "I was under the vague impression she was a professional harpist." 

"Would have been an easier living. Nobody hires witches like they used to."

"So you started a garage instead."

"Well. Plenty of people don't believe in magic. Everybody believes in internal combustion. And I like working with my hands, you know? Fiddling with things."

"You do have lovely hands," Francis said before he could quite stop himself. He blushed, but then was struck by the cheerful thought it was invisible in the dark. Buoyed, he went on, "It would be a pity to waste them."

Murray, astonishingly enough, laughed. "Are you flirting with me, Francis?"

"I suppose I am. Apologies; it is a - habit, when I am - " terrified out of his wits - "nervous. If you would rather I sat on the other side of the cave, I understand."

One of those lovely big hands closed on his shoulder. "Stay. I'm not angry. You'd get cold over there."

"A sensible argument." He shuddered, and hoped Murray had not felt it.

No such luck, of course. "You're cold already, aren't you," Murray declared, and suddenly there were two arms wrapped around his shoulders. 

Well, his dignity was already gone. Francis let himself relax, pressed up against his friend's warm, sturdy chest, with a sigh. "We're in a cave. It is to be expected."

"Adit. We're in an adit."

"What is the difference?"

"An adit is part of a mine. Manmade. Big, smooth floor, most of the time there's rails to bring out the ore carts. They took the rails out when they closed the mine, here. Don't know why they bothered. Cold is fair, though." He heaved a sigh. "The one on the east side of the hill's not so bad. There's a mattress in there, too. And a couple blankets."

"And why is there a mattress in the east adit?"

"Somebody dragged it up there so they could canoodle somewhere quiet." He could almost feel Murray's blush. "This one's a lot colder, or it might have a mattress too."

"Why is it colder?"

"Nobody knows."

Francis shuddered. Given the last hour's revelations his mind was turning in unsavoury directions. "Someone died in here, didn't they."

"One of the miners once, I think." Murray shrugged. 

"He was killed when a tunnel collapsed, and his corpse is still hidden beneath the fallen rock, and his restless ghost haunts the mine, leaving a chill that terrifies intruders." Francis was perhaps still a little hysterical.

"He had a heart attack," Murray told him. 

"Oh."

"If there's such a thing as ghosts I've never met one." 

"That's good to know."

"And nothing's going to collapse in here, some people did know how to brace a celling. Safe as houses. Nothing to worry about."

"Forgive me for worrying anyway."

The arms around his shoulders tightened. 

Neither of them said anything for a long while after that. Francis leaned against Murray's warmth and tried not to feel like he was cuddling under false pretences. But the chill was still seeping into his legs, and the cold air was hard on his lungs, and after a while he started to cough. 

Murray thumped him on the back. "You alright?" He smelled faintly of sweat and motor oil, and Francis tried to focus on that and ignore the other indignities.

"Only cold."

There was a long silence. Then, "Right. Sod this. Let's get out of here."

"Murray, I hesitate to point this out, but neither of us is on fire, nor are we carrying lighters -"

"Not that way." He was already surging to his feet, dragging Francis unceremoniously with him. "We just have to find the other adit. I'm sure it all meets up somewhere. Come on, a bit of exercise will warm you right up. Get your accordion."

Spending the night wandering an abandoned mine without a torch struck Francis as chancier than waiting to freeze behind the panic ward, but at least he would have good company. He did as he was told.

\--

It was dark, which meant Murray couldn't ask Francis to check his watch, which meant he had no idea if they'd actually been wandering for hours or if it just felt like hours because it was dark. He was sure Ceri would have read the leylines or some such and been out in ten minutes, and the annoyance of it all left him fuming. Francis had a death-grip on his wrist. "I think," he was saying again, "I hear something dripping."

"There's no dripping," Murray answered again. "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

That got a laugh, which was an improvement on the near-panic that kept seeping into Francis's voice. "Unless I have misunderstood the term, I do not own knickers."

"'Sa figure of speech." 

"I know."

"So why did you say that?"

"As an attempt at a joke."

"Not too bloody much of one."

"Murray," Francis said in a distinctly strained voice, "I am wandering in complete darkness through an abandoned mine, with no idea where we are going or, by now, how to return to where we were, carrying an accordion. I'm on quite a lot of stress. Joking is difficult."

"Under a lot of stress," Murray corrected. Their footsteps were echoing more loudly. Good; he didn't want to hit his head again. "Like it's something heavy that fell on you."

"I appreciate the language lesson but _that was a terrible metaphor and this is not how I wanted to die._ "

He stifled a laugh. It would have been cruel. "Why, how did you want to die?"

"In bed with someone else's handsome young husband, perhaps. And you?"

"Extreme old age." Murray sighed. "Why someone else's husband? Don't you want your own?"

"I'm a faggot, not a tranny." 

The words sounded like they were being dropped into place with tongs, but something in Francis's voice suggested he had heard them, or their French equivalents, not quite often enough to develop a thick skin. Murray knew he was bad with delicate feelings, but he didn't want to hit a friend on his bruises. He took a deep breath. "Boyfriend, then. I'd set you up with Art if he weren't leaving town, you know." He tried to drop it in casually.

"And if he had not just _shut us in an abandoned mine._ " Francis's voice was somewhere between righteously indignant, and amused.

"Well. True. He's a bit of a wanker."

"And he's so - half-English." Amusement had won out. 

"We can't help how we're made."

"True enough. But there are - ooof," Francis muttered, as he ploughed right into Murray's back. "Why did you stop?"

"Look left," he said urgently. "Do you see that?"

It took a great effort not to break into a run, and even at a walk they were so focused on the faint gleam of starlight they nearly tripped over the mattress.

\--

Francis collapsed on the first flattish rock he could see. Murray sat down a little more gingerly, bagpipes cradled in his arms. His breath sounded tired. "What time is it?"

It was hard to make out his watch by starlight, and the result seemed absurd. "Eleven-twenty."

"That early?"

"If time flies when you're having fun, mortal terror must make it crawl."

"True." Murray let out a long breath. "The Angel'll still be open. Fancy a pint?"

Drink was tempting. Francis wiggled his toes, trying to get some feeling back into his tired feet. "I ... think not," he said. "Mari is also our neighbour."

"You think she was in on this?"

"It is possible. No. No," he suddenly burst out, "I have a better idea. You keep your car _inside_ the garage at night, oui?"

" _Oui._ " Murray seemed intrigued.

"We take it. Nobody knows. We take your car to Cardiff and visit your sister, and in the morning when Arthur and Anthony turn up to let us out they go mad with worry and think we are lost in the mine. We stay away for the weekend and cause a panic."

"That," Murray told him, "sounds cruel, vengeful, and petty."

"Ah, well, we could simply go home to bed if -"

"Just like their idiot scheme. I'm feeling downright petty and vengeful." Murray clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, rise and shine."

Francis groaned involuntarily as he rose. His feet were throbbing. 

The plan was refined, as they pushed the car out of the garage so as to be able to make a rolling start and a cleaner getaway. Staying with Morwen transformed into a reassuring phone call to Morwen, but not Ceri, who Murray had decided in a grim sulk was probably in on it. Their immediate destination would be Holyhead, and the Dublin ferry, and then - well, who knew what they could do on the Emerald Isle?

Certainly whiskey would be involved. 

Francis realised, hunched half-asleep in the passenger seat five miles from Llangarreg - by some miracle they had left unobserved, even by anyone drunk - that he had no change of clothes nor toothbrush. Murray was unsympathetic, and informed him there were shops in Dublin.

\--

"They must have fallen asleep," Ercwlff said, and waved his torch around. 

"Do you hear Murray snoring? He snores." Arthur folded his arms.

There was a distinct lack of snoring.

"Um."

Arthur resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. It was still throbbing. He'd split last night between the Angel and the Green Man. He hoped no one had mentioned his imminent departure to Tewdwr Price; he had every intention of paying off his tab, in time, but the time would be well after his arrival in London. Clive had offered him a place to stay, of course, just while he got settled, and while worming his way back into the man's bed would save him plenty on rent, doing it smiling would cost him plenty in gin. 

Ercwlff was still waving the torch. Arthur snatched it away and shone it straight back the adit.

Nothing. 

"I think," he said with heavy heart, "this is where we get Cadoc. We didn't account for my brother being an imbecile."

They caught Cadoc coming out the door, and held a hurried conference. Cadoc suggested getting Ceri, but Arthur pointed out that finding-spells only gave you a direction, which would be useless in the maze of the mine. He counterproposed borrowing Cadoc's father's dog. Cadoc pointed out that Pembroke corgis were not known for tracking ability, and suggested the police.

"Sod that," Arthur informed him, "this is _our_ problem."

"If they've fallen down a pit, or been trapped by a rockfall -"

"Then the police will be no help. We need - " He stopped, struck by sudden inspiration. "We need a map is what we need."

Cadoc considered this, then announced, "I'll go make some calls."

\--

In short order an alarming number of people had gathered at the adit. Ercwlff had vanished, but Mari had joined the throng, and old Mr. Roberts, and Bethan and Rhys, and Tewdwr Price, who had not combed his hair yet and who looked like he wanted either to drop dead or possibly kill Arthur. Huw Price had somehow contrived to arrive with Bethan and Rhys, and Cadoc's teacherly instincts awoke; he couldn't keep from asking, "What are you doing here, Huw? Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't you be, Mr. Evans?" the lad answered, which was fair enough.

"I called them and said there was an emergency. Which you can't assist with, so perhaps -"

"Fishing line," Huw blandly informed him, and produced a paper sack. "I don't see anyone else with fishing line, do you? Can you use Trémaux's algorithm?"

"It's dangerous in there!"

Huw produced a torch.

Bethan had spread the mine map out on the ground, protected from the damp by Rhys's jacket. "Right," she said, "we'll go in pairs. I'll go with Mr. Price, Rhys with Arthur, Mari with Cadoc. Huw and Mr. Roberts will stay here with the map and guard the lines. Does everyone have torches?"

They tied Huw's fishing lines around a sapling, and did their best to make sense of the map. It was covered in arcane abbreviations, and Cadoc wished he had paid more attention to his father's stories about working there. Not, he thought bitterly, that it was likely to have helped. 

They should have walled off the adits long ago. He resolved to figure out who, technically, owned the mine, and write them a letter. Probably the county council.

Mari took point, without being asked. She muttered continually as they began heading down their designated corridor, about how she shouldn't even be awake yet, how Murray didn't have the sense of a waffle iron, how it would serve him right if he'd wandered off to never be seen again.

Cadoc reminded himself slapping her would be rude and unhelpful. "Perhaps we should have pressed harder for a peaceful resolution," he said.

Mari whirled around and poked him hard on the breastbone with her torch. It startled him so much he dropped the spool of fishing line. "Do you have to talk like a sodding schoolteacher all the time?"

"If you wanted profanity you should have gone with Arthur."

"I should have. I _should._ At least in London I could get laid."

He carefully crouched down and began feeling around for the spool, hoping his blush wasn't obvious. "You have steady work here," he pointed out. "And Llangarreg is peaceful. Quiet. You aren't staring at concrete all the time."

"You know, Francis said the same thing. But then he pointed out there isn't a decent bakery for miles around."

"Not everyone needs a bakery." Cadoc shrugged, and stood up again, spool clutched safe in one hand. "Can we get on with it?"

"You know, he'll probably never bake for his neighbours again." Mari heaved a sigh.

Cadoc contemplated this as they thumped along, waving the torch into the little side-galleries as they went. "Not Anthony and Ercwlff, or Mr. Price, at least. Our involvement is - from his perspective, unproven."

They had come to a tee-junction; Mari barely hesitated before taking the unmarked left path. "Cadoc Evans, you are incurably honest," she amiably informed him. "I can't imagine you not apologizing."

"I might stretch a point."

That got a smile.

\--

Mr. Price and Bethan Evans were the first out, and she accepted the folded-up map with a heavy sigh. Huw tried not to look too disappointed; they still had two-thirds of the mine unsearched. He had passed the time sketching a rough copy of the mine map, leaving off the short parallel galleries, and now he took out his red pencil to mark it off. Mr. Roberts was still absorbed in the adventure novel Huw had lent him.

Arthur and Rhys Evans arrived next, dusty and disgruntled. "We did find the mattress," Arthur told them, "after we'd gone down the same sodding hall three times because _someone_ didn't know how to tie a knot."

"I don't fish," Rhys said coldly. 

Two-thirds down. The knot in Huw's stomach was thickening. Murray was a nice fellow, and the one other person in town who seemed to understand why computers were interesting. He'd even given Huw a key to the garage so he could come in and write programs on weekends. The thought of finding him injured was - 

Huw decided not to think about it. He would have to go home after this, after all, and act normal in front of his parents.

It was close to eleven when Cadoc Evans and Mari turned up, not looking at each other, just the two of them. "Nothing, I'm afraid," Cadoc Evans told them, voice glum and eyes tight.

Huw let out a long breath. "Good."

"Good?" Arthur burst out. Everyone was staring, even Mr. Roberts. "My idiot brother and his damned French best friend have vanished from the face of the earth, and this is good?"

Grownups, Huw was perpetually reminded, were idiots. "Well, if you didn't find them in the mine, it means they left the mine. You found the other adit, didn't you?"

"They weren't home," Mari said distantly. "We checked."

"Did you check the garage?"

Twenty minutes later he'd admitted to his spare key and was using it to let them all in, so they could see for themselves that Murray's car was gone.

"Well, I suppose we should have expected it," Cadoc Evans said, in his I-know-you-children-can-do-better voice. He'd used it on his students for years, and sometimes it even worked. It worked on Huw, but mostly because he felt sorry for Mr. Evans. "They've shown no consideration -"

"It's what you lot deserved," Bethan Evans informed him. "Really, Cadoc, couldn't you have talked sense into them?"

"I tried!"

"Well, you could have tried harder!" She wheeled around, really wheeled, Huw couldn't see her feet move. "And you! Mari, did you stop at any point to think this through?"

Soon afterwards later Huw slipped into the office and turned Murray's computer on. No one noticed him leave.

He'd been working on the maze game he'd started to write for long enough to lose track of time, when he noticed the noise had died down. He kept typing. After a little while there was a polite cough behind him "It's called BASIC, Mr. Evans," Huw told him without turning around. "Do you want me to show you how it works?"

"I was going to offer you a ride to school." Mr. Evans sounded terribly apologetic about it. "We might still make it by noon."

"Why? You called in a supply teacher, didn't you?" 

This time Mr. Evans just sounded resigned. "If I told you how important your afternoon lessons were you'd just laugh, I suppose? Well, at least you're doing something educational. We really should get one of those for the school." He pulled the other chair over, and leaned in to look at the screen over Huw's shoulder. "What can you teach me?"

\--

On Saturday morning, Murray overslept. When he finally sat up, with a yawn, it was past nine. The other bed was empty. He blinked at it for a few seconds, then saw the clock and began to swear.

"Don't worry, I told them to leave a plate in the oven for you," said a voice by the door. 

Francis was already dressed for the day, in the soft blue shirt he'd insisted on buying yesterday in Dublin. His hair was brushed out and loose. It was a good look for him, it occurred to Murray; combined with the soft half-smile it lent him an angelic air.

Murray concluded he needed more sleep, if thoughts like that were running through his head.

He managed to brush his teeth and wash his face and shave without nicking himself, which felt like an accomplishment, then pulled on his dirty clothes and wandered back out. Maybe Francis had had the right idea, wanting to go shopping. His reheated plate, at least, smelled delightful; apparently they'd found a bed-and-breakfast that took the _breakfast_ seriously. The _bed_ had not been the best, but, Murray had to admit, his own troubled mind had been partly to blame for that.

He worked his way through two fried eggs, two sausages, and a portion of soda-bread, while Francis sat beside him and read last week's newspaper. Halfway through the black pudding Murray realized that Francis had been staring at something in International News, and elbowed him. "What's so interesting?"

"Nothing relevant." Francis carefully folded the paper and gave Murray a sunny smile. "Perhaps I should have moved to Denmark, but my Danish is nonexistent. And I am glad I got to meet all the friendly people in Llangarreg." He was still mispronouncing it, and Murray had resolved to do something about that, but before he could put the words together Francis blithely continued: "You especially. Now, what lovely attractions of Ireland will we visit today?"

"Uh." He hadn't actually thought it through that far. He considered. "We could just drive down the coast? Enjoy the scenery?"

"And see what happens?" Francis, beaming, reached over to take the last bit of bread. "That sounds like a wonderful plan."

\--


	6. Chapter 6

**January, 2000**

Murray was halfway through his pint by the time Arthur showed up, breathing hard and with his tie pulled loose. "You," he peremptorily began complete with dramatic point, "do _not_ know how to give directions."

"And good afternoon to you too, Art." Murray shoved the other chair out with his foot.

"I mean it. Complete incompetent."

"Come on, is that any way to talk to a man who saved the world from the Millennium Bug?"

Arthur harrumphed very loudly as he sat down  
. "You're the man who saved the Lambeth Building Society from the Millennium Bug and you still can't give directions. I want a drink."

Three minutes later he has a gin-and-tonic, and is arguing with the waiter about whether well-done steak is an abomination, or merely inadvisable. Murray is not surprised, on reflection, that his brother has not mellowed with age and good fortune. He finally manages to interrupt long enough to order a ploughman's.

"You'll never change, will you," Arthur says quietly once the waiter's gone.

Murray considers this. "Nor will you, I expect. Still single?"

That gets a glare. "Until and unless I find someone else as stupid as Clive, yes, thanks very much. Not everyone is angling for sodding perfect domestic bliss like you."

The smile slips onto Murray's face by instinct. Eleven years ago - eight years ago - he would have laughed at the idea of _domestic bliss_ , but Murray was sure now it had been worth the effort.

But Arthur would never understand that, so Murray settles for, "Stupid as Clive? One Swiss bank account not enough?"

"I did like the goldfish expression when the bobbies hauled him away. Come on, _it_ has to be good for something." Art's dismissive little flick tries to encompass all the gifts he hated to discuss. Second-best, after Ceri, but what did that matter in these scientific times? "Nobody in London wants a curse on their enemy's sheep. Nobody in London's enemy even has sheep."

"Hhmmph. You should have stayed in Llangarreg if you wanted to use it."

"You didn't." Art gulps at his gin-and-tonic.

"Not too many computers in Llangarreg, are there?" Murray grins. "Cadoc just bought a new one, you know. It's blueberry."

"You mean Apple."

"That too. Blueberry-coloured. It's like someone left a giant boiled sweet on his desk." Murray leans over. "You know what you should do? You should start a website. Get people together to talk. Maybe a message board. I could code it," he offers. "I'd give you a family discount."

Arthur takes another sip of gin-and-tonic. "Only two hundred percent your usual price?"

"Come on, what do you take me for? Hundred fifty."

That gets a smile, at least. "Tempting though your offer is, I think I'd better not let anyone get ideas about how, exactly, I'm so good at picking investments."

"Fair enough."

They sit in something approaching companionable silence for a while, which is nice. Something else they couldn't have had, eleven years ago.

Then Arthur says, half to himself, "If we're going to mix magic and computers we should do it _properly._ "

Murray considers this. Grins. "Why, did you have some better ideas?"

\--

It's simple enough to lovingly flip through a stack of bills, but rendered nearly impossible with a cheque. Mari is forced to settle for lovingly sniffing the ink; even then, it's difficult to make out over the thick, comforting smell of tea. She does it anyway, for the theatrics of it all.

It's snatched out of her grasp, as she expected, and replaced with a biscuit. Mari nibbles the biscuit and waits, with a patient smile. Finally her companion declares, "Nice. We might have a chance after all."

"I should bloody well hope so. Stop scowling, Rhys, or your face will get stuck that way."

"That's why _you_ get to talk to investors," he tells her, bland and absolutely straight-faced. 

Rhys Powell doesn't typically joke. His cousin Anthony seems incapable of applying himself, his little brother of focusing on anything but art; Rhys inherited all the gravitas in the family and none of the life-lust. Still, Mari preferred him to his grandfather. The old man had frittered away the family fortune, on failed business ventures and too many holidays and whatever caught his eye. He'd done better than he had any right to, but by the end all he had was the Angel, and that was slowly dying.

Mari is very much looking forward to remodelling it into unrecognizability.

"We have better than a chance," she informs Rhys, because _someone_ has to be the optimist here. "We have a business plan and in a year's time we will have a hotel and restaurant, and maybe people who come to Llangarreg to admire The Rock will stay long enough to leave a few pounds."

"Or they'll all go back to town and we'll sit around dusting empty rooms."

"If you don't trust me, trust the venture capitalists." She waves the cheque again. "We aren't meeting the architect until two, right?"

"Right."

"Want to go shopping?"

Rhys considers this, tilting his head. As if he weren't going to go home with three new silk shirts and new leather shoes. "Fine," he says, "but I pick where we get lunch."

"There's a reason you're doing the menus," Mari reminds him.

They both smile then, the smug, satisfied cat-smiles of two people with every reason to expect a triumph. And, indeed, why not? Of the thousand things that could derail their scheme, none have come close yet; barring disaster the Llangarreg Inn will open. From there, well, they'll simply have to advertise.

Sometimes Mari still wonders if fleeing the country like Arthur did would have been the best option, but as long as she's staying in Llangarreg she might as well improve the place.

\--

Ceri, it turns out, is sitting on a keg out back, having a cigarette. Tewdwr Price takes a few deep breaths. It's raining, of course. He locks the door behind him and stares out into the darkness. After a while Ceri silently passes him the cigarette.

"You probably shouldn't be doing that, you know," he offers, weakly. 

"There are a lot of things I shouldn't be doing. I've spent thirty-five years doing things I shouldn't be doing."

"So, what, the first fifteen were spotless?"

"Mmm. Approximately." Ceri waves a hand. "Relatively." 

Tewdwr considers this. He and Ceri had never been close in childhood; not until they became bartender and customer, then student and teacher, did they start trusting each other with their secrets. But for all the things spoken soft and slyly in the Green Man after closing, he wouldn't call them friends. Not precisely. Ceri is too inscrutable to have friends; if she's partial to anyone but her feckless brother Arthur, it doesn't show.

Still, he has to try. He takes a deep breath and says, "I know it's not my place to say this, but you're risking -"

"Then _don't say it_ ," Ceri snaps, and grabs the cigarette back. She takes a deep drag and blows the smoke in his face. "I am fifty years old. I am expecting twins. There will be a small miracle involved regardless."

The smoke hangs in the misty air. Tewdwr carefully doesn't take any more breaths until it dissipates.

There must be something it _is_ his place to say. Perhaps something professional. "Are you arranging the miracle yourself, or could you use my assistance?"

"It's been going since the morning after," she informed him dryly. "This is women's work."

"Fair enough."

"And you'll have enough to do picking up my regular clients."

That is - unexpected. "Are you taking a long holiday? Because I'd be glad to watch the children, while you worked, or I'm sure Bethan could lend a hand. She owes you."

"Most of Llangarreg owes me. But I'm moving to London, as it happens. Just for a year or two," she adds; she's not facing the right way to have seen Tewdwr's horrified expression, but Ceri never seems to need to see things to know them. "Art owes me, too, and he'll want to meet the wee ones."

"Does Arthur know you're moving in with him?" he can't help but ask.

"Arthur doesn't even know I'm expecting. I'll write him later." 

The cigarette is almost out; Ceri takes a last puff, then drops it and grinds out the ember with her heel. She makes no move to pick it up. There are enough dog-ends outside the Green Man that Tewdwr has given up caring.

"You needn't worry so much, Tewdwr Price. You're plenty competent." He makes a dismissive noise, but she implacably continues: "And half my clients only hire a witch because it's traditional. Like biodynamic wine. You could replace the blood with strawberry jam and they'd never know the difference." 

"But then the spells wouldn't set. No iron." He frowns. "I suppose you could use pureed kale and call it vegan."

Ceri's laugh is quiet, as always, and gives the impression she's laughing at anyone in hearing range. Still, it's good to hear.

The night is very dark, and damp, and Tewdwr is not looking forward to the walk home. There's at least one obvious way to put it off. "Can I walk you home?" 

"If you like," Ceri says, like she's doing him a favour. Which she is; add it to the ledger. Her boots squelch as she steps out into the mist, and Tewdwr stuffs his hands in his pockets and follows.

\--

Murray has never gotten the hang of pleasantries. The first thing he does when Francis gets in is wait with visible impatience for him to take off his coat and boots; the second, grab Francis by the waist for a long, enthusiastic kiss; the third, announce, "So Art and me are going into business together."

"Mmm." Francis leans against him, enjoying the warmth; their house can never quite shake the damp despite his incessant baking. "That's a change. What kind of business?"

"We are going to revolutionize the thaumaturgic universe via integration with modern technological processes."

"Wait, what?"

"That's what Arthur says to put on the website. We're going to enchant computers. Only we have to figure out how first."

Nine years ago, at Murray's firm insistence and the eager collusion of his editor, Francis had begun composing his books on an Apple Classic, a hideous and utterly incorrect name. Three years ago, he had yielded to the inevitable and acquired a laptop to replace it. Murray has been making noises about something more up-to-date, modern, with more sheep, which Francis is sure he misunderstood. He does not like computers. They have no soul.

Still, his beloved regards their household's nine computers with the same sturdy affection he once held for Francis's unreliable Citroen. Francis therefore makes an enquiring noise, then does his best to ask helpful questions as he listens to a torrent of half-formed ideas on two topics he is far from expert on. It has been _three days_. He had thought taking a weekend away, by himself, would clear his head and give him inspiration. All it did was make him miss Murray.

"It sounds," Francis finally says, when the explanations die down, "as if you have a few years of research to do before you can sell anything." He allows himself a small sigh. "Fascinating stuff. I do wish I could assist you."

"Well, maybe you can hit the website with a thesaurus until normal people can read it." Murray gives a rueful sigh. "Did you get any book ideas in Calais?"

That is another thing Francis adores in Murray: his straightforwardness. He was like that when they got together, which was the only reason they did; it took two minutes from _This is a really good stew_ to _Do you fancy me? I won't be mad, I just want to know_ to _Well, so far as I can tell I've never fancied anyone, but I like you and I want to give it a try_. He pulls his feet up onto the sofa. "Not a one. All I could think of was how much you would have liked the views. And hated the restaurants."

Murray descends - there is no better word for it, graceful and abrupt - onto the sofa, landing in an easy sprawl. "Maybe you should write a novel. One of those magical-realism things."

"I am terrible with fiction. I cannot make things up that are more sensible than life." Francis wiggles his toes against Murray's thigh.

"Oh, not made up. You could write about our new business. Give us all fake names." He's warming to the topic; he waves his hands in indistinct demonstration. "You could write it just like one of your pop histories, and nobody would know. It'd be fun."

There is something fascinating about the idea, when it's put like that. A true history, but nonetheless a secret except, perhaps, to any particularly - what is the word? Savvy? No, better to say - _astute_ customers, or fellow practitioners. He doubts competitors will be a concern. 

Something to think about. Worth at least one night of sleeping-on. Thinking of which - 

"Have you had supper?"

"It's half nine, I didn't wait up." Murray pats his knee. "You want something?"

"Only a night in our own bed. I always forget how exhausting ferries are." 

"Well," Murray cheerily informed him, "if you pass out on the sofa I'll carry you upstairs. How's that?"

Francis smiled and let his eyes slip shut. "Entirely satisfactory."

\--


End file.
